


Broken

by LulaIsAKitten



Series: Octavia Street musings [10]
Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Eventual Smut, Fluff, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Infertility, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-03
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-08-16 23:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 38,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16504856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LulaIsAKitten/pseuds/LulaIsAKitten
Summary: Spring/summer 2007. When Strike is airlifted out of Afghanistan badly wounded, life changes for those around him too.





	1. Tilted

**Author's Note:**

> Set to Mature rating for now because PTSD is coming up. May get smutty later.
> 
> This is going to be slow, people, please bear with me. I have a lot of things I want to get in, and much of it is still cloudy in my head. This is the Plot Cat that has been taking up all the room in my head for months and scaring away all the other stories, it needs to be set free. ;)

Gasping, Nick buried his face in Ilsa’s shoulder, kissing her neck as his heart rate slowed. She hugged him tight, humming with satisfaction. He raised his head, grinned and kissed her tenderly, and then shifted himself off her to lie next to her, his arm extended for her to roll in and lay her head on his shoulder and wrap a leg over him as she always did.

Instead she grabbed a pillow from beneath her head and wriggled until she managed to get it under her bottom, so that she was lying with her hips higher than her shoulders. Nick frowned across at her, puzzled and amused. “What are you doing?”

“I read somewhere that if I lie with my hips propped up for twenty minutes after, it increases our chances,” she said.

Nick rolled his eyes surreptitiously. “Really? That doesn’t look comfortable.”

“It’s not, particularly.”

“I’m sure Mother Nature has made sure that you can get pregnant without having to do that.”

“It all helps,” Ilsa said. “Oh, and I got more kale at the supermarket today.”

Nick sighed a little. “There is such a thing as too much kale, you know,” he said. “And it’s not much kale, I have to tell you.” He stretched, relaxed and sated, and reached across to lay a hand on the flat of her stomach, stroking her soft skin.

“We’re both supposed to have lots of folates,” Ilsa insisted. “I’m doing lentils tomorrow night.”

Nick chuckled sleepily. “You’re on your own there,” he said. “Curry night with the guys.”

Ilsa turned her head to look at him. “Oh, Nick, can’t you skip it this month? I might still be ovulating tomorrow.”

“And my boys will still be doing their job. Sperm live for several days, you know. I’ve been reading up too.” _Though not quite as obsessively as you have,_ he thought.

Ilsa sighed. “Okay, maybe we could do it in the morning before work,” she said. “What time is your shift starting? I’ll set the alarm.”

“How very spontaneous and romantic,” Nick said drily.

Ilsa giggled. “I thought you were enjoying making a baby,” she protested. Nick rolled towards her and kissed her cheek warmly. “I am.” He tried to work out how to curl around her, but she was at an awkward angle. He settled instead for holding her hand, and was soon snoring softly next to her.

Ilsa lay and looked at the ceiling and waited for the minutes to pass, wondering if an extra ten might help. She sighed. If she didn’t fall pregnant this month, it would have been a year. A year of trying with no results. It was a milestone she didn’t want to reach.

At first it had been fun. They’d quite enjoyed the idea of trying for a baby, their sex life suddenly rejuvenated with the promise of new life, but recently it had begun to feel staged, forced, unspontaneous. Ilsa had started counting days, buying ovulation tests, planning nights in with Nick. He had started to grumble gently at her scheduling, at her repeated suggestions that he cut down on trips to the pub and eat more leafy greens. She hadn’t missed the roll of his eyes as she explained the pillow. And it was weird to be lying here like this now. They’d always fallen asleep after sex wrapped in one another in a post-coital glow. Now she was lying awake worrying, resenting him a little for being able to slide so easily into sleep. He kept telling her to relax, that it would happen in time, but the months were rolling past and still it didn’t.

The minutes ticked by and she tried not to think about it too much. After twenty-five, she decided that was long enough and pulled the pillow free and tossed it to the floor. She curled up against her husband, who was deeply asleep now, and lay and waited for her busy mind to quiet.

...

Nick strolled slowly down Octavia Street towards his house. His breath made clouds that glinted orange in the street lights. April had brought a brief, fierce return of winter, but the weather forecasters were promising things would warm up next week. That would likely mean rain, though. He preferred it cold and crisp.

He was in a somewhat reflective mood, and in no hurry to get home. It had been an odd few months over the winter. He was struggling a little to understand why Ilsa had become so preoccupied with conceiving a baby. They were only thirty-two, Ilsa only just, in fact, and in the grand scheme of things hadn’t been trying that long. He wished it wasn’t making her so sad and anxious. His attempts to reassure her were met with occasional flashes of irritation, which was unlike her. He remained convinced that it would happen in time, it was just a matter of patience.

As he approached number 80, he spotted a car parked outside that looked familiar, and he frowned. It looked like Lucy’s. He traversed the path to the front door, fishing in his pocket for his keys, and let himself into the house. “Hi!” he called.

“In here.” Nick could tell at once from his wife’s voice that something was badly wrong. His heart lurched and he turned quickly in to the living room.

Ilsa and Lucy sat on the sofa. Lucy looked a mess, had clearly been crying for some time, and Ilsa was upset too, her arm around Lucy’s shoulders. Nick crossed the room to them quickly, dread tightening in his chest. “What’s happened?”

Lucy took a shuddering breath. “It’s Cormoran,” she said. “There’s been an accident, an explosion, in Afghanistan near their base, they said. Several servicemen killed. Cormoran and a colleague were badly wounded, they’re airlifting them out. That’s all I know.” She began crying again.

Nick glanced at Ilsa, who shrugged, tears spilling down her cheeks. “That’s all we’ve got,” she said.

Lucy rubbed her hands across her face, trying to get her tears under control. “I’m sorry, I don’t know details,” she said. “Some guy, major someone, rang me about two hours ago. They’re going to ring back when they know more. They’re flying him to somewhere in Germany to be assessed, but he said not to make arrangements to fly out because as long as he’s stable they’ll fly him straight on to London. It depends what’s wrong. He wouldn’t say, but I got the impression it’s serious.” She buried her face in her hands, sobbing.

Nick stood and looked at them both, trying to take it in. The danger of an Army career had seemed abstract somehow. Strike had known the risks when he signed up, and Nick knew in theory it was possible to be injured or killed on active duty, but somehow he couldn’t quite believe it had happened to their friend.

The organised part of his brain kicked in. “Joan and Ted?”

“I rang them before I came over,” Lucy said. “They’re packing to come up, but waiting for more news, like we all are. Sorry to descend on you like this. I was a mess at home, I was upsetting the boys, so Greg said he’d do bedtime and sent me here.”

Nick wondered how she had managed to drive. “It’s no bother at all, Luce, you’re always welcome, you know that,” he said. “I’ll drive you home when you want to go, I can get a cab back.”

There was a brief silence, broken only by the muffled sounds of Lucy and Ilsa crying. Nick glanced at his watch. “It must be a few hours’ flight from Afghanistan to Germany, and then they’ll have to assess him,” he said. “It’ll be a while before we hear any more, I guess. Cup of tea, Luce?”

Lucy nodded gratefully. Nick dropped a comforting hand onto Ilsa’s shoulder and she clamped her hand over his, laying her head against his arm for a moment. Nick squeezed her shoulder gently, and went to put the kettle on.

Tea brewed, he called the women through to the kitchen. “Anyone hungry?”

Lucy shook her head. “I’ve had tea, thanks,” she said. “We eat early in our house, joys of small children.”

Nick glanced at Ilsa but she wouldn’t meet his gaze. “I’m not hungry,” she murmured.

Nick nodded. “Well, I’m going to make a quick omelette. You could have a few bites? Keep your strength up.”

Ilsa nodded vaguely.

Lucy’s mobile rang while Nick was whisking eggs and she pounced on it. “Oh. It’s Aunty Joan,” she said. “I thought it might be...” She trailed off.

She answered the call, and Ilsa moved away a little to give her some privacy. She crossed to Nick at the hob and slid her arms around him with a sigh. He put an arm over her shoulders and pulled her close, kissing the top of her head, feeling her tremble against him.

“We just have to wait, and not assume the worst,” he murmured, and Ilsa nodded, sniffing.

Lucy was crying down the phone now. Ilsa moved back to her and held out a tentative hand, and Lucy handed the phone over. Ilsa wrapped an arm round her.

“Hi, Aunty Joan, it’s Ilsa.” Joan wasn’t actually Ilsa’s aunt, but she was her mum’s best friend. Ilsa had grown up calling her Aunty. “Yes, she’s here with us. Yes, Nick’s here too. We’re just having mugs of tea and waiting. Oh, I don’t know. I’ll ask her.” Ilsa paused and looked down at Lucy. “Do you want Joan and Ted to set off?” she asked softly. Lucy shrugged helplessly.

“Hi again, Aunty Joan. Um... Lucy doesn’t know. To be honest, I guess if you left now, you’d be arriving at like two in the morning. Might as well try to sleep and come tomorrow? Yes, I will. Yes, we’ll keep in touch. Oh, and Joan? Could you ring Mum and let her know?” It was Ilsa’s turn to start crying again now, at the thought of her mother. She passed the phone back to Lucy.

Nick slid his omelette into a plate and grabbed two forks from the drawer. He set the plate on the counter and put his arm around his wife again. She buried her face in his shirt and he stroked her back for a minute, and then gently disentangled himself and gave her a fork. “Try to eat a bit,” he said gently, and she nodded gratefully.

Lucy hung up and put her phone on the breakfast bar, and sat and looked at it. Nick and Ilsa ate in silence. The air was heavy.

Nick, ever practical, tried to focus on what needed to be done. “I’m trying to think who else we need to keep in the loop. Do you know how to get hold of Shanker, Lucy?”

Lucy nodded tiredly. “I’ve got a number for him,” she said. “He texts sometimes, on my birthday and the anniversary of mum’s death and stuff.”

Nick was surprised, though he supposed he shouldn’t be. Shanker had been an almost-brother to Strike particularly and so therefore to Lucy as well. It was still odd to think of him making thoughtful gestures, though.

“Want me to ring him?” Nick asked.

Lucy raised tearful eyes to his. “Oh, Nick, would you?” she said gratefully. “I don’t think I can face telling it all again.”

Nick nodded. “Write it down for me,” he said. “I’ll ring off my mobile, keep yours clear in case the Army try to call.” He hunted in a drawer under the counter for a scrap of paper and a pencil.

The girls finished their mugs of tea while Nick stepped out into the garden to ring Shanker, vaguely wondering what Shanker’s actual name was. He must have one, but Nick had never known it.

The call was brief and functional. Nick promised to ring again when he had more news. He hung up and stood, breathing the cold air, upset himself suddenly. Lucy was right, it was telling other people, it made it more real.

He took a few deep, shuddering breaths and went back to the kitchen. He needed to make sure Lucy got home safe.

  


	2. Fix You

Ilsa chewed nervously on a fingernail as Nick navigated their car through busy traffic on the outskirts of London. They were heading towards the military hospital in Surrey where Strike was being treated. She had no idea what to expect or what he might look like.

She had found it hard to stay away for this first week. Under any other circumstances, she’d have beaten a path to his door, but the Army were implacable. Family only. So she’d had to rely on nightly updates by phone from Lucy. She’d babysat a few times so that Greg could drive and give Lucy a break. She knew Lucy had longed to stay at the hospital but hadn’t been allowed, and that her little boys were missing their mum desperately.

She gazed out of the car window. Grey streets had given way to Surrey countryside. It had been a miserable week. Ilsa had felt helpless, unable to help her old friend, wishing she could visit. She did what she could by babysitting, waving Lucy and Joan and Ted off as cheerfully as she could and then finding herself stuck often late into the evening, wrangling small boys through baths and bedtime, picking up toys, brushing hair, preparing lunch boxes, every act a reminder of what she herself didn’t have.

Ilsa felt the irony of her situation keenly. After so many years of careful contraception, of worrying about being pregnant if her period was late when she was studying for the bar or building her career, she had abandoned the pill a year ago with confidence that it wouldn’t take long. She’d fully expected to be a mother by now. Instead nothing, just her period, month after month, cruelly reminding her that she had to wait yet again, while suddenly everyone around her seemed to be pregnant. Some friends were on second babies now.

“We’re here.” Nick’s voice cut into her thoughts and Ilsa jumped a little, her heart lurching. They pulled into a parking space and climbed out of the car. Ilsa gazed at the building in front of her in surprise. She’d been expecting something functional, hospital-like, but this looked more like a stately home. It was huge and a little forbidding in the rapidly fading evening light. Nervous suddenly, Ilsa slid her hand into Nick’s. They followed the signs for the main entrance.

Lucy had gratefully taken a night off to spend with her sons, putting them to bed herself for the first time in a week. Ted and Joan, who were staying in one of the boys’ rooms at their house, had gone out for the evening to give Greg and Lucy some much needed time with their boys and each other.

Ilsa and Nick made their way to reception and asked for directions. They traversed corridors, passing physiotherapy wings, occupational therapy wards, recreational areas, and everywhere, young men and sometimes women working on recovery from various horrific injuries. Ilsa grew more and more nervous with every wounded soldier they passed. She could scarcely believe that Strike could belong here. He’d always been so fit, so vital, so alive.

Nick moved around with confidence, spotting who to talk to and who to ask for directions. Ilsa followed him quietly, and they soon located their friend. His ward was next door to the high dependency unit from which he had only been moved 48 hours previously after his latest operation. Lucy had said the doctors were hopeful it had been his last, but that there was a chance he’d need more surgery at a later date.

Ilsa had to suppress a squeak of distress when she saw Strike, propped up against pillows in a hospital bed. She could see at once that he was still in a lot of pain, his face pale, grey and lined, his skin drawn tight across his features, almost translucent. He looked smaller, shrunken somehow. His face was still bruised from the original accident, multiple tiny cuts healing on his skin. He gave them a half-hearted grin, extending a hand to Nick, and Ilsa flung her arms around his neck and tried and failed not to cry on him.

He hugged her back, and she clung to him for a long minute, feeling as though her heart might break. He wrapped an arm around her, and she could feel the tension in every fibre of him. Eventually she sat back, perched on the edge of his bed, wiping her eyes. Strike cleared his throat gruffly, and Nick blinked rapidly as they shook hands again, gripping his old friend’s hand tightly in his.

“Oh, Corm...” Ilsa said softly, tears on her cheeks. She’d so longed to see him, and now she had no idea what to say. He smiled at her gently, but the warmth didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I’m lucky, Ils,” he said. “That’s the only way to look at this. The two guys in the front of the truck are dead. Anstis is in the burns unit having skin grafts on his face. I got off relatively lightly.”

Ilsa nodded doubtfully. She resolutely refused to look down the bed, even though she knew she couldn’t see where his missing leg was, or rather wasn’t. A lump below the blankets indicated some kind of box or cage used to keep the covers from touching what was left of his leg. Even so, Ilsa didn’t think she was quite ready to confront the reality of what had happened to him yet, to even try to comprehend it.

“How is it?” Nick asked softly, pulling up a chair.

Strike grimaced. “As good as it’s going to get, they reckon,” he said. “Last operation has repaired what they can of the knee, it was pretty badly shattered but they think I’ll be able to use it again. Don’t think I’ll need skin grafts.”

“How long before they can fit you with a new leg?” Ilsa asked, and he pulled another face.

“Months,” he said. “They’ve said not to think too far ahead. As soon as the worst of the swelling goes down they’re going to start physio for the knee and get me practising with crutches, because the other leg is fine, thank God. But it’s not just a case of sticking a false leg on and off I go. I didn’t really understand everything they told me, but it’s not a speedy process.”

“How long have you got to be in here?” Nick asked.

Strike shook his head. “They won’t say, no matter how much I ask. One doc said long weeks or short months, depending on how things go. What does that mean in non-doctor speak?”

It was Nick’s turn to pull a face. “Doesn’t sound like you’ll be out any time soon,” he said. “It must be quite intense, the rehab.”

“I think so, at first,” Strike said. “I kind of assumed that I’d be straight back to it, but it’s... It’s hard to describe, but it’s like my balance has gone, it’s weird. I almost feel like I might fall out of bed or something. So I don’t think it’s a case of just grabbing some crutches and off I go.”

Nick nodded. “Your brain has known how to balance your body all your life. You have to give it time to recalibrate. That’ll be quicker than you think.”

“They’ve got the works here,” Strike said, looking around. “It’s pretty impressive. Physio, gym, pool.”

“And what happens after?” Ilsa asked. “When they let you out. What will you do then?”

“God knows,” Strike replied. “Lucy wants me to go there, but Christ, can you imagine? They’re bursting at the seams already. Joan and Ted want me to go to Cornwall, but I’d rather be in London. The Army have got temporary invalid accommodation I can access, though it’ll not exactly be cheerful. I guess I’ll try and get a flat or something. I’ll need to keep coming here regularly for a bit, though maybe I can get physio more locally to wherever I am. I haven’t got that far.”

“You can come to us,” Ilsa said firmly. She saw the tiny shake of Nick’s head, and irritation flared, but she set that thought aside to tackle him about later. “Are they keeping you entertained?”

Strike gave a short laugh. “Telly, mostly,” he said. “But to be honest, this is the first day I’ve been awake more hours than asleep. They’ve drugged me pretty hard.” He looked exhausted even as he spoke.

“You’ll be tired a lot,” Nick said. “Recovering from something like this is a slow process.”

“Yeah,” Strike said heavily. “So they keep saying. Patience was never my strong suit.”

“Well, we’ll be here,” Ilsa promised. “I’ll come whenever I can, and I’ll bring a pack of cards or something. You always said you’d teach me to play poker.”

Strike smiled fondly at her. “I’d like that.”

“I’ll find some coffees,” Nick looked around.

Strike nodded. “I don’t think the cafe is far, Greg is never very long fetching drinks. I haven’t got the hang of the layout of this place at all yet.”

Nick disappeared in search of the cafe. Ilsa sat and looked at her old friend.

“Oh, Corm.” Tears sprang to her eyes again. She took his hand where it lay next to him on the covers.

“I know,” he said gruffly. “It’s a bit shit. I haven’t worked out what on earth I’m going to do yet. I’m no good to the Army now except at a desk job.” He pulled a face that showed what he thought of that idea.

“Don’t think about that yet,” Ilsa said stoutly. “We just need to get you well first.”

Strike nodded and sighed, resting his head back against the pillows, exhausted. His eyes drifted closed, but his hand held hers tightly. Ilsa was overwhelmed with a rush of protective love for her oldest friend. They’d known one another twenty-six years, and now he needed her. She vowed to herself she’d do everything she could for him.

“Does it hurt a lot?” she asked timidly.

“Comes and goes,” Strike replied, opening his eyes again. “I think they do something during the operations to deaden some of the nerves. It’s more that they drug me so hard, particularly at night so I can try to sleep, I just sort of drift, like I’m not actually sleeping. It’s hard to describe. And of course it hurts every time I forget and try to turn over or something.” He made no mention of the repeated, drug-induced nightmares that had got so bad he feared sleep sometimes.

Ilsa squeezed his hand gently, wishing she could do more to help.

Presently Nick returned with coffees. “Looks surprisingly good for hospital coffee,” he said, and Strike nodded.

“It is good. Tea’s not bad either, though I’ll have to find someone down there who can make it strong enough for me when I can get about.”

“Glad to see we’re giving our injured troops the quality stuff.” Nick smiled.

They chatted for an hour or so, but Strike grew greyer and greyer, and soon the nurses were hustling them out. “You can stay longer when he’s stronger,” one said as he escorted them to the door of the ward. “What he needs right now is to sleep and heal.”

Ilsa nodded. They made their way back along the many corridors and emerged from the hospital into darkness. Low clouds sat ugly on the horizon, the chilly air a reminder that winter wasn’t loosening its grip just yet.

They walked back to the car in silence. Ilsa couldn’t stop thinking about how small and helpless her old friend had looked. Her heart ached.

Nick unlocked the car doors and they climbed in, still quiet. They left the grounds and headed back towards London. Drizzle began to dampen the air and the windscreen. Suddenly life seemed all shadow and bleakness. Ilsa sat in silence all the way home, afraid she’d cry if she tried to speak.

 


	3. California Dreamin’

Nick picked up his tray and looked around the hospital cafeteria for somewhere to sit. It was busy, almost every table occupied. He usually tried to come just before or after the lunch rush.

He spotted Sian sat at a table on her own, waving to him, and he headed over. She’d managed to bag a table by the window, although the view over the car park wasn’t exactly inspiring.

Nick grinned at her as he sat down. Sian was tall with short blonde hair, pretty. They had dated casually, years ago - in fact he’d been seeing her when he’d met up with Ilsa again - and he had fond memories of an easy, uncomplicated relationship that hadn’t been serious. She’d not batted an eyelid when he’d confessed that he’d bumped into his first love and wanted to see where things might go, and had congratulated him warmly when he and Ilsa announced their engagement only a few months later.

“How’s tricks?” she asked him as she speared a piece of chicken from her salad.

Fleeting images swept through his mind, of Strike lying in a hospital bed, of Lucy’s tears, of Ilsa with her bottom propped up on a pillow.

“Good, thanks, you?” he replied lightly.

“Yeah, good too, thanks,” she said. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you.”

Nick picked up his sandwich and regarded her over it, one eyebrow raised. “Go on.” He took a bite. He was hungry, clinic had overrun today.

“Has Bob talked to you yet?”

Nick shook his head, chewing. Bob was his boss, the head of gastroenterology at the hospital.

Sian put down her fork and leaned forward. “There’s a symposium thing, series of lectures, in California,” she said. “Spread across a few hospitals - LA, Bakersfield, San Francisco, maybe San Jose or Oakland. The details aren’t finalised yet. They’re doing some research on the biome stuff, specifically gut bacteria and how it relates to overall health. The hospital are putting a team of four together. I’ve applied to go as the immunology expert. Mark from endocrinology and Araf from paeds have put in. A few others, I think Sam Watkins maybe? They’ll need a gastroenterologist, and I suggested you to Bob. Think Jim might be interested too.”

“What’s it involve?” Nick was interested.

“Well,” Sian sat back again and picked up her sparkling water. “It’s basically a jolly. Greg someone over there is organising it. We attend all the lectures and conferences at the various hospitals. Give a lecture each at each one but it can probably be the same lecture, and you could probably just tweak that last paper you published. Plenty of down time between hospitals, we could explore. I think we should hire a team car, explore a bit. Pacific coast, you know.”

Nick looked thoughtful. “When?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Quite soon. Leaving in about a month or so, I think. And it’s for a month, all told. Quite a lot to pack in. There’ll be the usual writing up after, reporting back, but I think the fun is going to outweigh the work.”

Nick sighed. “It’s a long time to be away, and not much notice.” He was trying not to imagine Ilsa’s reaction to his suggestion that he would be missing the right time of the month at least once, possibly twice. And could he really go on what basically sounded like a month-long working holiday while his best friend lay in hospital recovering from losing a leg, when he could be here to offer support?

He shook his head. “Sounds fantastic, but it’s not great timing for me,” he said.

Sian shrugged. “Your loss,” she said. “I’m sure Jim’ll jump at the chance.” She scooped up a forkful of salad. “Hey, did you hear one of the top bosses is leaving? Going to Melbourne, apparently.”

The conversation moved on to general work gossip, but the idea lingered in the back of Nick’s mind. He’d always wanted to explore the States more. He and Strike had talked of doing it together in their youth, driving coast to coast, but life had taken over. _That’ll probably never happen now,_ he thought with a jolt. _When did life get so...complicated, so tied down?_

...

Ilsa got to work early. She’d parked the car as close as she could to the office, and was hoping to get away early and beat the traffic to get to the hospital and visit Strike. She’d got a pack of cards in her handbag and had picked up some snacks at the local shop. She wondered idly what kind of magazine he might like to read as she let herself into the office. She wondered if he even read magazines.

Claire was slightly late, which was unlike her. Ilsa looked up from her desk when her friend arrived. “Morning,” she said. “Coffee?”

Claire hung up her coat, pulled a box from her handbag and waved it in Ilsa’s direction. “Peppermint tea,” she said. “Health kick.”

Ilsa shook her head fondly. “I’ll stick to the coffee, thanks.” She stood and moved to the coffee maker they’d bought that took pride of place on its own little table by the window. A small kettle sat there too. She hoped the biscuit tin wasn’t empty.

“How’s Corm?” Claire asked.

Ilsa flicked the switches on the coffee machine and kettle, selected a coffee pod from the box. She turned back to her friend with a sigh. “Not great. He just looks so...small and helpless in that bed. I wasn’t prepared for that. I kind of thought he’d just look like himself, but without a leg.” She turned back to clip the pod into its cradle and start her coffee going. She grabbed a mug and shoved it under the spout before the machine could start dispensing coffee all over the table, as it occasionally did when one of them forgot to put a cup underneath.

Claire moved over to join her, putting a minty-smelling teabag from her box into another mug. She shook her head. “Poor chap,” she said. “He was always so active.”

Ilsa shot her a sly glance. “You’d know.” She winked.

Claire waved a dismissive hand. “That was years ago, and we were only casual, you know that,” she said. “Give him my love, will you?”

Ilsa nodded. The kettle boiled and she poured water into Claire’s mug.“What are you working on today?”

“Still writing notes and preparing lists of questions for witnesses for that big fraud case. This is going to take months and months.” Claire sighed. She took her mug and moved to her desk, regarding the large stack of files gloomily.

Ilsa nodded. “I thought about putting in for that one, but I...didn’t in the end.” _Because I thought I’d be on maternity leave by now._

Claire laughed a little. “Well, I half wish I hadn’t, now,” she said ruefully. “Sooo much groundwork to do, it’s tedious. We should have minions for this, surely.”

Ilsa grinned. “I’m sure you can find a luckless intern to help,” she said.

Claire rolled her eyes. “And then I’d have to babysit them. It’s easier to do it myself!”

Smiling, Ilsa poured herself a coffee and took it to her desk, and they settled down to work. Ilsa tried to focus, but her mind kept wandering to a hospital ward in Surrey. She decided she must remember to pick up some fruit, too.

...

Nick arrived home to delicious smells emanating from the kitchen. He hung up his coat and went through. Ilsa was pottering about. Pans simmered on the stove. The oven whirred. Tupperware pots and lids were spread on the counter. Various spoons sat on saucers. Ilsa looked delightful, he thought, a flush on her cheeks, a smear of sauce on her chin, tendrils of blonde hair falling out of the ponytail she’d shoved it all into to keep it out of the way.

“What are you doing?” he asked, looking at the chaos. “Smells amazing, by the way. I thought you were going to see Oggy tonight?”

“I did, but I couldn’t stay long, he was really tired. They started his physio today and I think it hurt him. He looks awful, Nick, and I’m sure he’s thinner. I don’t think he’s eating.”

Nick gazed around at the industrious kitchen. “Is that what this is?”

“Yeah. He always liked shepherd’s pie, remember? I had some ideas to tinker with it, give it more flavour, try and get him to eat. My mum always puts Worcestershire sauce in, but someone at work suggested soy sauce, so I’ve gone with that, and plenty of garlic.”

“My mum puts Marmite in,” Nick said. “What are we having?”

“Oh, that’s a good idea, I’ll try that in the next batch,” Ilsa replied. “Um, I think there’ll be enough left for us.” She began spooning the meat mixture into the Tupperware pots. “I wonder if I’d be better to cook one huge dish, let it cool, and then put it in the pots. He’d get the crunchy top of the potato then.”

Nick smiled fondly. “I’ll leave you to it, going to have a shower,” he said. She was humming quietly to herself as he went upstairs.

Later over dinner, perched on the end of the breakfast bar because the cooling pots of shepherd’s pie took up half the space, he told her about the conversation with Sian, about the California trip. If he was honest with himself, he was half hoping she’d encourage him to apply for it.

“It does sound fun,” Ilsa said, thoughtfully. “But it’s not great timing.” He could see her counting dates in her head. “I think we might miss two baby chances.”

Nick grimaced. “I feared that might be the case,” he said. “And with Oggy poorly, and we want to support him... Like you say, it's just really not great timing. It’s a shame, it’s such a wonderful opportunity.”

“I might do a meat and potato stew next time,” Ilsa mused, indicating the Tupperware pots. “Needs to be a one-pot meal.”

Nick looked at her, and realised he didn’t really have her full attention. With a small sigh he turned his focus back to his plate. It was very good shepherd’s pie.

...

Strike was dozing when Ilsa arrived the following evening. She smiled at the nurses at the desk and approached him slowly, not wanting to disturb him. His slumber gave her a chance to observe him properly for the first time since the accident. He was pale, drawn, tense even in sleep. A couple of days of stubble darkened his jaw. It was unlike him to sleep in the day, but she supposed he must still be on quite strong painkillers. She supposed his body must be working hard to recover from what it had been put through in recent weeks.

She drew a chair up as quietly as she could and laid her bag and a Tupperware pot on it. She regarded him for a moment and then decided to fetch some mugs of tea from the cafe.

When she got back ten minutes later he was awake and looking slightly agitated. She wondered if he was having trouble sleeping. She’d read up a bit about PTSD, hoping she’d be able to help, but he’d changed the subject when she’d tentatively tried to raise it, and she hadn’t pushed. She walked over to him with a determined smile, brandishing the mugs of tea.

“How are you?” she asked gently, passing him a mug.

“Fine,” he said shortly, taking it from her. “Thanks.”

“Corm—”

Before she could get any further, Strike indicated behind her and she turned to see Lucy and Ted and Joan approaching. She glanced back at Strike and saw a fleeting look of resigned exhaustion pass across his face before he schooled his features into a polite smile.

“No escape,” she murmured as she stepped aside to make room for the visitors, and was rewarded with a sideways glance of amusement and a low chuckle from him. He’d not completely lost his sense of humour.

Five minutes later she understood Strike’s reticence to discuss his mental health as Lucy launched into a barrage of questions about it, with Joan and Ted nodding wisely behind her. Strike fielded the questions with increasing impatience, and Ilsa did her best to change the subject, eventually managing to get Ted discussing cricket while she distracted Lucy with questions about the boys. Strike gave her a small, grateful smile and she grinned fondly back at him. Lucy produced pictures that her sons had drawn, and insisted on sticking them to the wall above Strike’s head, bustling about with Blu-Tack in a way that Ilsa could see irritated Strike.

“They’re desperate to visit, I’ve told them they can come when you’re feeling a bit better,” Lucy chattered, and Ilsa had turn a laugh into a cough at the look of horror that passed across Strike’s face.

Mercifully, the nurses intervened after only an hour and declared that Strike needed to rest. Ilsa cast a sly look at him. They didn’t throw her out any more. She wondered if Strike had them primed to only let his sister stay for so long. It wouldn’t surprise her.

She kissed his cheek warmly and indicated the Tupperware pot. “Homemade shepherd’s pie, in case you get hungry later,” she said. “Text me if you’d like more, I’ve got a whole batch in the freezer.”

Strike’s face brightened considerably. “Wow, thanks, Ilsa,” he said, with the first proper smile she’d seen from him all evening. Ilsa left with a glow in her heart.

...

She arrived home as Nick was making Thai noodles, one of their favourites. She kissed him on the cheek and dropped the car keys into the bowl on the counter. She was tired. Working all day and then driving to Surrey and back was taking its toll.

“Will you be able to juggle your shifts when Corm moves in?” she asked. “I thought maybe if I could get to the office early and you could do lates, he wouldn’t be alone too long in the day then.”

Nick glanced at her sideways as he reached for the sesame oil. “He’s not a puppy. He’s quite used to his own company.”

Ilsa slid into a stool and sighed, moving her head about to stretch her stiff neck. “Yes, but he’s going to struggle physically, at least initially. I think he should be around people. When he’s living here...” Ilsa caught the slight shake of Nick’s head and stopped. “What? You did that in the hospital the other day, too. We need to help him, Nick.”

Nick stopped what he was doing and turned to look at her. “It makes no sense, Ils,” he said. “We’ve got a step down from the gate and two up to the front door. The path is cracked. Our door frames are narrow. The only loo is upstairs, and there’s nowhere down here for him to sleep, either. There’s the sill of the French doors to step over into the garden every time he goes out to smoke. We’re just not wheelchair friendly. You heard him, he’s going to be months before he gets a new leg, and he’ll be independent then anyway.”

Ilsa scowled. Deep down she knew all these things were true. “What, then?” she demanded.

Nick turned back to toss the sticking noodles. “I don’t know. Ted and Joan’s, maybe?”

Ilsa’s heart lurched at the thought of Strike being whisked away to Cornwall. He needed to be here where she could take care of him. She cast around for ideas.

“What about if we rented somewhere?” she suggested presently. “Rent this place out and rent a disabled-adapted place, all of us together?”

Nick stopped and turned to face her again. “Seriously?”

She glared at his sceptical look. “Why not?”

“Ils....” Nick trailed off, searching for the words. “A little perspective...”

Tears stung her eyes. “You’re the one refusing to help,” she snapped, angry with herself for being so emotional about it. “He’s our _friend,_ Nick.”

“The Army will provide for him,” Nick reasoned. “And we’ll be there for him, of course we will. But he’s a proud man, he won’t want to be nursed by us.”

“We can’t just stand by,” Ilsa said. “We have to do _something_.”

“We are.” Nick paused while he bent to retrieve two plates from the cupboard. “And we’ll continue to help.” He switched off the gas and dished up the noodles. Ilsa watched, quiet and still slightly resentful. He put a plateful in front of her and slid onto the stool opposite.

“Have you actually asked him what help he wants?”

“No,” Ilsa muttered. “He’ll say he doesn’t want any help.”

Nick gave her a rueful smile. “Well, then.”

“But what he wants and what he needs are different things.”

“What he needs, or what you need?” Nick asked gently. Ilsa scowled at him and ate her noodles in silence.

 

 


	4. Thorn In My Side

The following couple of weeks were rough. Ilsa went to the hospital every opportunity she could. She sat with Strike, often just in quiet with him. He was in a lot of pain, she knew, and though he was stoic about it and determined with the physio, he grew steadily thinner and paler. Ilsa left her dinner offerings in the fridge at the nurses’ station, and they gave her back the empty pots. She hoped Strike was actually eating the food.

Lucy was there frequently, also looking haggard. “It’s so hard,” she confided in Ilsa over coffee in the cafe while Strike was having bandages changed. “When I’m here I feel guilty I’m not at home, and when I’m at home I feel guilty I’m not here. Greg’s kind of managing, but it’s all slipping a bit. And it’s lovely having Uncle Ted and Aunty Joan with us, but we’re full to bursting. The boys won’t settle at night because they’re all sharing a room, Ted is just kind of in the way a lot trying to help, and Joan thinks she’s helping but I can never find anything in the kitchen any more...”

She gave a rueful chuckle. “Sorry to rant,” she said. “I’m just so tired.”

Ilsa nodded sympathetically. She had some of the same guilt herself. Nick came with her to the hospital once a week or so, but his shifts made it harder for him to visit. She knew he was eating a lot of microwave meals, while she herself was surviving mostly on sandwiches from the hospital cafe. But she knew it must be harder for Lucy, leaving such young boys at home.

She also knew Strike was frustrated that he wasn’t making the physical progress he’d hoped for. “They rarely do,” one of the nurses told her as they chatted while Strike was in the bathroom. He was becoming more adept at manoeuvring on his crutches. Brian had swooped in to change the bed sheets while Strike was out of the room, and Ilsa offered to help. 

“They’re so determined, these Army guys, and so used to being physically fit,” Brian went on, dumping the sheets in a laundry cart and swiftly spreading new ones. “They find this stage hard, psychologically. The progress is so slow. Add in the difficulties of losing a limb - it’s kind of like a grieving process - and often survivor’s guilt too, and if the injury was particularly traumatic, PTSD. For many it’s a perfect storm. Some are more willing to go for counselling than others.” He didn’t say which end of this spectrum Strike leaned towards, but Ilsa could guess.

She’d come up with the idea to read to him to fill the hours. “Choose something long that you always wished you’d read,” she’d suggested, so now she sat and read long chunks of War and Peace to him. She wasn’t sure he was listening a lot of the time.

Some evenings Strike simply sat, listless, in a chair in the rec room or on his bed, and Ilsa would sit next to him quietly. Sometimes she held his hand if she sensed he was particularly in pain or feeling low. Often Strike would drift from an unfocused state into sleep. These times alarmed Ilsa a little. Her old friend had always been so focused, so alert.

Once or twice she slept too, slumped forward with her head on her forearms on the edge of his bed or chair, her hand still clutching his. He always woke before long, though, restless and unfocused still, his breathing uneven and his heart racing, and he wouldn’t talk about what he’d dreamed, though Ilsa could guess.

She wished she could say or do more to help. She carried on reading War and Peace, read him snippets from the paper, told him about work cases, but she still suspected he wasn't truly listening. He seemed to be slowly retreating into himself. He often looked exhausted and she suspected he wasn’t sleeping well during the night either. In many ways it was easier when Nick came too, more comfortable in a hospital environment than any of them, making easy small talk about football and the finishing season. Nick had always been a good talker, but Ilsa found herself irked by this now for reasons she couldn’t put her finger on. She wanted to be the one to be there for her old friend, to look after him.

It was on just such an afternoon, one Saturday when they were all chatting about this and that, Nick encouraging Strike to speculate about Arsenal’s prospects for that afternoon, that Charlotte swept back into their lives.

Strike spotted her first and froze. Ilsa caught the look on his face - surprised, delighted, hopeful, wary - and her heart plummeted. She knew who would be there before she turned around.

Charlotte took her time marching up the ward, dressed to impress in a sharply cut powder blue trouser suit that emphasised her slim figure and long legs and looked like it cost a fortune. _She knows how to make an entrance,_ Ilsa thought bitterly. Charlotte walked right up to them all without saying a word, without taking her eyes off Strike, not even a flicker to acknowledge Nick and Ilsa’s presence. She reached the side of the bed, leaned down and kissed Strike full on the mouth.

Nick’s eyebrows climbed into his hair and he glanced at Ilsa. He saw her look of fury as she stepped back. Charlotte carried right on kissing Strike, opening her mouth over his, and Ilsa shuddered a little at a glimpse of her tongue snaking forward. She turned away.

“Let’s go get a coffee,” Nick murmured, nodding towards the door, and Ilsa nodded and followed him. They left the couple kissing and moved away down the ward. Ilsa was furious, actually trembling a little in anger, Nick noticed.

“How dare she!” Ilsa hissed as soon as they were out of earshot.

Nick glanced sideways at her. “How dare she what?”

“Just waltz back into his life as if nothing happened! As if she hadn’t threatened to kill herself, frightened the crap out of him, been carted off to rehab and then ignored him for two years! Where’s she been all this time, eh? She’s still managed to find time to get into the gossip columns. And now she thinks she can just pick up where they left off. Does she think this is glamorous somehow?”

“Breathe,” Nick said. “Come on, look at the good side.”

“What good side?” Ilsa muttered mutinously.

“Well, she’s here. She must still care, and he obviously still cares about her, you saw his face.”

Ilsa scowled.

“And, you know. It’ll be good for his ego, knowing that even after what happened, she still wants him.”

“Why wouldn’t she?”

“I’m just saying,” Nick said patiently. “It’s a guy thing. It’ll be gratifying to know that he can still be, you know, attractive to the opposite sex. I know he shouldn’t not be. But people can be shallow.”

“Especially her,” Ilsa grumbled.

Nick sighed a little. They were at the cafe now, and went to the counter to order coffees. Ilsa was still shaking her head.

“And here’s another bright side,” Nick said. “I get to have coffee with my wife. Don’t see you much any more.”

Ilsa looked at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing! Just, you know, I miss you.”

Ilsa sighed. “Sorry. I’m being grouchy. I miss you too. But Corm needs me. Well, he did before she showed up.”

“I know,” Nick picked up the coffees and carried them to a free table. “He’ll still need you. You’re his oldest friend.”

Ilsa smiled a little.

They sat opposite one another and Nick slid a hand across the table and tangled his fingers with hers. “You okay?” he asked gently.

Ilsa dropped her gaze to her mug. “My period came,” she said quietly.

Nick squeezed her hand. “I’m sorry, love.”

Ilsa gritted her teeth and tried not to cry. “That’s a year now.”

“Is it?” Nick was vaguely surprised. It didn’t seem like it could have been that long.

“Yeah, remember, because it was on our fifth anniversary that we decided to chuck out the contraception.” _I was so excited, so happy. A new chapter in our lives,_ she thought. Tears started in her eyes again. _Stop it._

“I was wondering...” she began, and then stopped again.

“What?”

“Well, if maybe it’s time we went to the doctor. You know, get checked out. Maybe there’s something simple that could fix it. What’s that face for?”

“Sorry,” Nick said ruefully. “I’ve seen the fertility department in our hospital. It’s not exactly inspiring. I mean, all I have to do is go into one of their awful sterile little rooms with terrible porn videos and a cup, and that’s bad enough. They all know what you’re trying to achieve in there. Ugh.” He was rewarded with a smile from Ilsa. “But you’re the one who has to get poked and prodded and stuck with needles, have dye injected up you and stuff. We want to avoid that for as long as we can.”

“But it would be worth it, if we found a solution.”

“Oh, Ilsa, that’s a whole huge conversation that I don’t think we need to have yet. What if the only option is IVF?”

“Then we’ll do that,” Ilsa said at once.

“Ilsa...” Nick struggled for the words. “It’s not a given. It’s not a walk in the park, you know. They pump you full of hormones, massively overstimulate your ovaries, there are all sorts of side effects. I know everyone seems to think it’s just simple, you go for some IVF and have a baby, but it’s complicated and painful and expensive and not without risk. And there are no guarantees.”

“So you wouldn’t?” Tears welled in Ilsa’s eyes again.

“I’m not saying that. I’m saying it’s a huge decision, and we don’t have to think about it yet. It’s a long process, too, the natural way is probably quicker even if it is taking us some time.”

What he couldn’t bring himself to say was that it might not even be an option. He didn’t want her to worry any more than she was already.

Ilsa sighed and looked away. Every time she worried, she got the same reaction from him. _Don’t worry about it so much. We don’t need to worry yet. There’s plenty of time._

_Even if I get pregnant next month, I’ll be thirty-three before I have the baby,_ she thought, and felt the familiar anxiety tighten in her stomach. Time was going too fast. There weren’t enough chances in a year, and it was so long to wait till next month now.

“Ilsa?”

“It’s fine, forget I mentioned it.”

“Ils—”

“No, you’re right. It’s too soon to think about that yet.”

Nick gave up, but he wasn’t convinced.

Ilsa looked at her watch. “We should take some mugs of tea up, see how the lovely Charlotte is these days,” she said heavily. Nick nodded and went to order two teas.

They made their way back up to the ward. Charlotte was sat on Strike’s bed. They were chatting softly, fingers laced together, and Ilsa could see at once how happy her old friend was. He was smiling gently, in a slightly bemused kind of way, and clearly couldn’t keep his eyes off her. _I must make an effort,_ Ilsa thought. _Nick’s right, this could be good for him._

She pinned a smile on her face. “Charlotte, lovely to see you,” she said, and Charlotte smiled graciously back and allowed her cheek to be kissed, making air kiss noises back.

“I was just apologising to Bluey for taking so long to show up. Thanks, Nick,” she added as she accepted a mug of tea. “I only just heard on the grapevine that he was here, I thought he was still in Afghanistan.”

Ilsa had forgotten how grating her low, husky voice was. _I’m sure she doesn’t need to sound like that,_ she thought. “How have you been?” She asked politely as Nick passed Strike his tea.

“Yah, good, actually,” Charlotte said. “Had a long spell in rehab after my little...episode, and I’ve been in counselling ever since. Addressing my issues. I’m in a much better place now.”

Ilsa nodded. “Good,” she said. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

“We, er, might push off and leave you guys to it,” Nick said. “Got some errands to run.”

Reluctantly, Ilsa nodded. They said their goodbyes and left. Ilsa glanced back as they left the ward. Charlotte was leaning in close now, murmuring something to Strike, and he was gazing at her fondly.

As they passed the nurses’ station, Brian caught Ilsa’s gaze, his eyebrows raised in a question. Ilsa nodded and rolled her eyes, and he chuckled.

 


	5. Free Fallin’

“Ilsa.”

Ilsa stopped reading, her finger moving to mark her place on the page so she could look up. “What’s up?”

Strike hesitated so long, she began to wonder if he was going to speak again. He was gazing, unseeing, at the opposite wall.

“Do you...bring the car?” he asked eventually.

She nodded. “Usually, if Nick doesn’t need it,” she said. “It’s a pain in the arse getting here on public transport.”

Strike nodded. He still wasn’t looking at her. “Could I...come and sit in it?”

Ilsa frowned, puzzled. “Sure,” she said. “Er, why?”

Another long pause. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet, distant.

“I have dreams. Nightmares. You probably—”

Ilsa nodded, reaching for his hand where it had tightened into a fist on the bedclothes. She stroked her fingers over the back of it, then closed her hand over his.

“They’re all...about being in that Viking. Trapped, and I can’t get out, and I can’t get the driver to stop. I know it’s coming, but I can’t get anyone to hear me...” He was trembling now. Ilsa’s hand tightened on his, her face twisted with sympathy.

“They’ll discharge me at some point, Ils, and I’m going to have to get to wherever I decide to go. And I don’t know if I can get in a car again,” he finished softly. “I thought...maybe I should practise.”

Ilsa nodded. “Good plan,” she said. “Let me know when you’re ready and I’ll make sure I bring it.”

Strike nodded, and met her gaze finally. “Thanks,” he murmured. He looked vulnerable somehow, but determined.

Ilsa smiled gently at him. “No problem.” She turned her eyes back to War and Peace. Strike leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

...

Nick wandered out of his consulting room and gazed in surprise at the empty waiting area. “No patients?” he asked Sophie on reception.

She shook her head. “Next one hasn’t showed up, and the one after has cancelled,” she replied.

“Right. Right.” Nick said. “I’m going to grab a coffee, then. Page me if anyone appears.”

Sophie nodded, and Nick set off for the cafeteria. With a bit of luck he’d have time to drink a coffee in peace before his pager summoned him back.

The cafeteria was busy so he bought a takeaway coffee and headed back in the direction of his office, thinking vaguely of his piles of paperwork. His thoughts drifted as he walked the corridors. Ilsa was central in them. _I miss her,_ he thought suddenly.

He pondered this as he walked. Why did he miss her? She was right there like she had always been. But something was different. Something to do with how hard it had been to reach her, to talk to her, in recent months. And now she was spending all her free time at the hospital with Strike, and when she was home she was distracted. He was worried about her, about his relationship with her, in a small, nagging way that he couldn’t quite pin down.

His footsteps faltered, and he found himself drifting in the direction of the immunology department. Without really thinking about it, he found himself at the door of Sian’s office.

She looked up when he poked his head round the door. “Nick, hi. What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

“You busy?”

She sighed and waved an arm at a pile of files. Nick chuckled. “Your paperwork mountain is even bigger than mine.”

“It never ends. Every time I finish, there’s more.”

“Tell me about it.”

“Come in, have a seat,” she said.

Nick waved his coffee apologetically. “Didn’t bring you one, sorry. Wasn’t a planned visit.”

Sian smiled. “It’s okay, I’ve got a Thermos. Saves the trek.” She turned to retrieve a Thermos from the top of the overloaded bookshelf behind her, poured herself a coffee and set the flask on her desk. She waved at the chair opposite her. “How can I help?”

Nick was having second thoughts already, but he was here now. He sat down.

“You did a whole bunch of stuff on counselling and psychology, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Yeah, for a while there I wished I’d done psych instead,” she said. “I might still switch to counselling once the paperwork has buried me, I could see myself setting up a practice one day. Why?”

“You’d be good at it,” Nick replied. “I wanted to ask...”

“What?”

He looked at her, vaguely surprised. “I don’t actually know. I don’t even know what the problem is, let alone the answer.”

Sian put her head on one side. “Interesting. What’s the central issue?”

Nick hesitated, feeling disloyal already.

“Nick, anything you say to me in this office is utterly confidential, you know that. Want me to officially make you a patient? Then I’m legally bound, doctor-patient confidentiality.”

Nick laughed. “No need for that. I trust you, that’s why I ended up here, I guess. It’s just...”

Sian waited.

Nick sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“It must be, or you’d be able to fix it.”

“Ilsa and I have been trying for a baby,” Nick said finally. “For a while now. I know these things can take time, but I think she’s worrying about it a lot. And then a friend of ours who’s in the Army has been wounded and is in hospital, and she’s suddenly spending all her time there. She’s totally focused on him. Even when she’s at home she’s not really there, mentally. I don’t think for a minute there’s anything untoward going on, they’ve been friends since childhood. It’s just...odd.”

“You think she’s focusing on him to escape her other worries?”

“I don’t know. I wondered. Is that a thing?”

Sian considered. “It can be. Humans are complex creatures mentally. She probably isn’t doing it consciously. If she’s been worrying about the baby business, it might be a welcome distraction to have something else to pour her energies into. It’s not necessarily a bad thing.”

Nick thought about that. “That’s true. I hadn’t looked at it that way.”

“And also, this is something she can actually do, take an active part in. Not much she can do to help the conception thing, that’s just a waiting game.”

Nick was thankful she’d glossed over the doing part of trying for a baby.

“It’s also possible because she’s ready for a baby, that’s brought out her nurturing side and she wants to care for something or someone,” Sian went on. Then she looked directly at him. “Why is it bothering you?”

The question surprised him. “Um...” An image of Ilsa’s fury at Charlotte’s return rose in his mind, but he banished it.

“Maybe that’s the question you need to ask.”

“I guess... Because there’s this distance between us because of it. She’s distracted.” He paused. “I miss her,” he finished quietly.

“You’re allowed to mind your wife’s attention being focused elsewhere.”

Nick raised an eyebrow at her. “I’d be pretty selfish to try to stop her supporting a friend in need.”

Sian gazed back at him, impassive. “I didn’t suggest you do anything about it. I’m just saying it’s okay to acknowledge the feeling, if that is what you’re feeling. Accept it. You don’t have to act on it.”

Nick nodded a little, looking down at his coffee.

“Talk to her.”

He sighed. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Well, at the root of it, it is. It’s always about communication. Almost always.”

“I know. But she’s helping a friend. I can’t even imagine what he’s going through. He’s lost a leg, possibly got PTSD. I can’t exactly say, hey, leave him be for a bit, focus on me.”

“She’s your wife, Nick. I presume he has family, other friends.”

“Yeah, but Ilsa and he are close. We’re all close, but they’ve known each other longer. He introduced us.”

“She married you. Do you feel you can’t ask for her time and attention?”

“No, it’s just...” Nick trailed off, uncertain. “It’d be a bit selfish, in this context.”

“Well, your options are talk to her, or ride it out and see what happens. You guys are...okay, right?”

“Definitely.”

“Good. Then maybe just be there for her and see how it goes.”

Nick nodded.

“Changed your mind about California?”

Nick sighed. “I’d love to, but I can’t,” he said. “Did you get a place?”

Sian nodded, grinning, and Nick felt a small pang of envy.

“When do you go?”

“A month. Just sorting visas and everything now.”

Nick smiled and stood. “Hope you have a wonderful time,” he said. “And thanks.” He raised his coffee cup.

Sian waved his thanks away. “Any time. Door’s always open.”

Nick strolled back to clinic, thinking.

...

“Cormoran...” Ilsa had reached the end of a chapter and closed the book.

Strike opened his eyes. “I’m awake.”

Ilsa laughed a little. “I wasn’t accusing you of falling asleep. I just wondered....”

She paused, and Strike looked at her expectantly.

“Are you okay? I mean, I know Lucy nags you about seeing the psychologist, and I certainly don’t want to add to that. But, you know, maybe it’s a good idea.”

Strike pulled a face. “I know she means well, I just don’t see what good it would do. There are things I just have to get my head round, like the car thing.”

“Yes, but they could help.”

“Maybe. I’m not ruling it out. I just don’t really want to.”

“Well, you know I won’t push you. But I’m here too if you want to talk.”

Strike nodded, and there was a pause.

“One of the hardest things,” he said suddenly, “is the mobility. Like if there was a fire alarm or something now, I can’t just get up and go outside. The crutches are so slow and cumbersome, and it takes me forever to do anything or get anywhere.”

“They must have a plan for a fire alarm.”

“Yeah, I know, but in general. I’m never going to be able to just jump up and go and do something, anything, again. I’ll have to plan, think ahead. I’ll get used to it, I guess.”

“It’ll get better when you get a new leg.”

“Yeah.” Strike looked doubtful. “But like in the night, when I take it off...”

He sighed. “I don’t know, Ils. It’s just...different. I feel stuck, vulnerable. I’ve never really felt like that. Being six foot three has its advantages, and not feeling vulnerable physically is one of them.”

Ilsa nodded. “Whereas I’m small, I feel like that a lot,” she said. “This is why women never walk anywhere alone at night and so on.”

Strike nodded.

“But I still don’t see how counselling would help,” he finished. “I just have to get used to it.”

“Well, I guess it wouldn’t, as long as you’re coping,” Ilsa said slowly. “But, you know, if you’re having trouble sleeping... I’m just saying, it’s totally normal to need help with this stuff. And I know you know that, intellectually. But do you really _know_ it?”

Strike said nothing.

“Right,” Ilsa said briskly. “Coffee break. Hey, why don’t you come with me? Let’s go drink it in the cafe rather than me bringing it up.”

Strike brightened. “Good plan,” he said. Then he chuckled a little. “God, I can’t believe that going down to the hospital cafe feels like an outing. I need to get out of this place.”

Ilsa smiled fondly, reaching for his crutches to pass them to him as he swung his legs out of bed. “Better keep at that physio, then.”

She said no more, but was thoughtful as they made their way slowly along to the lifts. She could see what Strike meant. The journey to the cafe was so quick normally, she just popped down the stairs and there it was. His life was going to be very different.

She had the sense that he was downplaying the psychological effects, though. He was still drawn and pale, still didn’t look like he was eating or sleeping enough.

 


	6. My Love, My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit smutty...

When Nick arrived home clutching a bunch of flowers, Ilsa’s jacket was on the peg, her bag on the kitchen counter. She was humming softly as she chopped vegetables in the kitchen. The piquant aroma of frying spices came from a pan on the hob.

He smiled softly to himself. He’d have been hurt if she hadn’t been home tonight. He knew she’d have heard the front door, but he made a pretence of sneaking up behind her to kiss her. She grinned and turned to him, and he flourished the bouquet. “Happy anniversary. Again.”

She squeaked with delight at the flowers and kissed him, her lips lingering on his. “You shouldn’t have,” she said. “You already gave me my lovely bracelet.” She waved her wrist at him to show him she’d worn it all day.

“Yeah, I should,” he said. “Oh, and this.” He handed her a heavy package.

Ilsa looked at it sideways to read the label. “Silver Spoon. Nick, why are you giving me sugar?”

“Because that, apparently, is what you get for six years.”

Ilsa laughed. “You’re joking?”

“Nope. Weird, isn’t it?”

“That is odd. But, er, thank you!”

Chuckling, Nick peered into the frying pan. “What are you making?”

“Veggie curry,” she said. “That Madhur Jaffrey recipe we like.”

“Ooh, yum, you haven’t done that in ages,” Nick exclaimed. “Have I got time to shower?”

“Yup,” she said, throwing him a smile and then going back to her chopping. “It’ll be about half an hour.”

His heart light suddenly, Nick took the stairs two at a time. A whole evening with his wife, a rare treat. He stripped quickly and got into a scalding hot shower, washing away the hospital feel. He didn’t linger long, and when he got out, he found a glass of red wine waiting on the dresser in the bedroom.

Humming softly to himself and taking occasional sips of wine, he found boxers, tracksuit bottoms and a soft grey T-shirt and pulled them on. He rubbed the towel across his hair again and raked his fingers though it to vaguely tidy it, and even remembered to hang the towel back on the rail. Smiling, relaxed, he took his wine back down to the kitchen.

Soft music emanated from the Bluetooth speaker on the end of the breakfast bar by the wall. Ilsa had unwrapped the flowers and arranged them in a vase next to it, and was stirring the curry. She lifted the lid to check on the rice, and then turned back to smile at him. “Five minutes.”

He grinned and slid onto a stool. “How was work?”

“Yeah, good. Claire was off sick, hope she’s okay. Must text her later. It’s quiet without her but I get so much more done.” Ilsa laughed. “I don’t feel like we chat that much, but I guess we must.”

“And Oggy?”

“Would you believe he’s got Shanker going tonight, he said. And possibly Lucy. Decided I’d leave them to it.”

Nick nodded. “Glad Shanker’s going, I wondered if he would. I guess Oggy has carted him to hospital enough times. He seems very...accident prone in his line of work.”

Ilsa giggled. “Amazing how often you can fall on a knife whilst chopping vegetables when you’re Shanker.”

Nick laughed. Ilsa grabbed the wine bottle from the side. “Top-up?”

“Please.” He held out his glass. She topped up his and her own, and went back to stirring the curry. Nick watched, content.

Ilsa dished up the curry and they sat opposite one another.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Uneventful. Couple of colonoscopies, a bunch of cases to review, checking up on a couple of students. The usual.”

Ilsa smiled. “I will never get how doctors can go straight from all kinds of grossness to wolfing down their dinner,” she said fondly as Nick tucked into his curry.

“We’re desensitised,” he said. “This is really good, Ils.”

She grinned. “I actually remembered the tamarind this time,” she said.

“I still think that sounds like it should be some kind of monkey.”

She giggled. “You make that same joke every time.”

“And you always laugh.”

They chatted and ate. Nick’s heart swelled with happiness. She was here and in the moment and listening. It felt...right. And rare.

They cleared the dishes together, stacked the dishwasher and dumped the pans in the sink to soak. Nick glanced at his watch. “What have we got taped? Fancy a comedy or a documentary?”

Ilsa winked at him. “I’ve got a much better idea,” she said as she topped up their glasses. She passed him his, grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the stairs.

He grinned back at her. “So that’s why you’re home tonight.”

She flushed slightly, smiling. “No, I’m home because it’s our anniversary. It just so happens that Corm really is busy. But yes, the little white sticks say tonight is a good night.”

“And who am I to argue with the little white sticks?” Nick said fondly, following her to the stairs.

They climbed the stairs together. Nick felt the delicious anticipation he’d always felt at the prospect of going to bed with her.

To his amusement, she started stripping her clothes off as soon as they were in their room. “Keen, are we?”

She grinned. “Just can’t bear being in my work clothes any more. I’ll put my pyjamas on, you can still unwrap me.”

He waited until she’d removed her bra and then pounced, pulling her giggling onto the bed. “And why would I let you put clothes back on?” he murmured, wrapping her in his arms and pulling her close.

“You have me at a disadvantage, I’m only wearing knickers now,” she replied, hooking her leg over his hip.

“No, you definitely have me at the disadvantage, I can’t think straight when you’re so very nearly naked,” he said, and kissed her.

She wriggled against him, knowing exactly what turned him on, sliding her hands under his T-shirt and raking her nails gently across his chest. Nick growled softly into her mouth as he kissed her, his tongue seeking hers, enjoying the thrust of her hips against his. He could feel the familiar pull of desire in his groin as she pressed herself against him, her hands everywhere.

He released her mouth and moved across her jaw, kissing and gently biting, one hand coming round to cup her breast. Ilsa gasped and dropped her head back as he rasped a thumb over her nipple, teasing it into a hard peak as he nipped at her neck with his teeth.

“God, Nick,” she moaned. She arched against him, pulling him closer with her leg hooked over him, her heel digging into his backside. Suddenly she drew away, half sitting up, tugging at his T-shirt. Grinning, he helped her, shrugging it off and throwing it aside, and immediately she was pushing at the waistband of his tracksuit bottoms, sliding her hands right in to push them and his boxers off together.

“In a hurry?” he murmured, and she pulled back from him and gazed at him, a storm in her eyes.

“God, yes,” she muttered. “So turned on.”

Nick stripped off the last of his clothes and pulled her close again. “Must be my manly charms,” he said softy, but she just growled against him and wrapped her leg over him again. Her hands roved across his chest and round to his back, stroking, feeling, pulling him against her so that her breasts were crushed between them.

He stroked across her back, and then to his amusement she grabbed his hand and pushed it downwards to where she wanted it, guiding him between her legs. Desire surged in him as she rubbed herself against his wrist, moaning a little. “I want you so much,” she whispered raggedly.

“I want you too,” he murmured back, pushing her knickers down out of the way. His hand sought her centre, fingers softly stroking, and she groaned and writhed beneath his gentle touches.

“Please, Nick,” she gasped as he stroked her, dipping the tip of one finger into her and feeling her buck up against him. He smiled softly and pushed her knickers right down so she could kick them off. Before he could make any further movement, she scrambled up over him and pushed him down on the bed.

Grinning up at her, Nick grabbed her hips to steady her as she situated herself over him. Without hesitation she sank down onto him, groaning deeply. Pleasure suffused them both as they began to rock together, finding a familiar rhythm, each knowing how to please the other. Ilsa arched over him, her mouth seeking his, and they kissed and moved together, increasing their urgency. She broke free of his mouth to tuck her head next to his, groaning out her pleasure, and he felt her contract around him as she came.

Nick rocked gently beneath her, riding her through her orgasm, then as she slowed he rolled them both, pinning her beneath him and thrusting against her to his own climax, shuddering within her and over her until he finally stilled, breathing hard and humming into her ear with deep satisfaction.

Ilsa clung to him, pulling him close, whispering love in his ear until he gently rolled off her to lie next to her, his arm still wrapped over her.

“I love you,” he said softly.

“I love you too,” she whispered back.

Smiling a little, Nick passed her one of his pillows. She flushed, feeling a little ridiculous, but propped it under her, grateful for his support in something she knew he didn’t really believe in.

A quiet closeness enveloped them, a rare feeling these days, Nick thought. His mind drifted back to his conversation with Sian. _It’s always about communication._

He tangled his fingers in hers as she lay next to him. “I miss you,” he murmured softly.

Ilsa turned her head to look at him, puzzled. “I’m right here.”

“I know.” Nick shrugged. “You just seem...not here, sometimes.”

“Is this because I’m spending so much time with Corm?”

“No. Maybe. A bit.”

Ilsa raised an eyebrow at him. “He needs me, Nick. He needs you too. We can both be there for him.”

Nick nodded. She was right.

Ilsa gazed at the ceiling again. “You know, if we ever do have a baby, you’ll have to get used to sharing my attention.”

“I know.” Nick nodded again and gave up. He wasn’t sure how to explain what he meant.

...

They both went to visit Strike the following day. Nick grabbed Ilsa’s hand as they walked the corridors, tangling their fingers together, seeking the easy connection they’d always had that he so missed lately. She squeezed his fingers, but her attention was already focused ahead, on helping their friend.

A young man with floppy hair passed them in the corridor, going in the opposite direction. Nick frowned slightly, sure he looked familiar.

“Was that Al Rokeby we just passed on the way in?” he asked Strike as soon as greetings had been exchanged.

Strike nodded, impressed. “Well spotted.” Al was his half brother, one of his rockstar father’s legitimate children, much younger than him and raised with all the trappings and lifestyle one would expect of a famous family.

“Interesting. What did he want?”

Strike’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. “Officially, to convey greetings and condolences from the family who’ve largely ignored me. But really to try and give me money.”

“Money? Why?”

“Apparently the papers have got hold of the fact that I’m here, and they’re running stories about ‘poor injured serviceman son of rockstar destitute’ or some such bollocks. Rokeby Senior is having a crisis of conscience, I guess.”

“Are you going to take it?” Ilsa asked, curious.

“Am I fuck! Where was his money when we were living in squats, when Mum was struggling to put food on the table for us all? We largely lived off what Lucy’s dad provided. He can’t just sweep in now and throw money around and look like he’s the generous daddy. I told Al to tell Jonny where to stick his chequebook.”

Nick grinned. “I bet that was popular.”

Strike chuckled. “I’ve got nothing against Al. I quite like the kid, he’s not as much of a twat as the rest of them. But he didn’t look like he was keen to take the message back.”

Ilsa settled herself in the chair by his bed. “Maybe you should have taken it, help you get set up with a flat and everything.”

Strike shook his head. “I do need money for what I’m planning, but I’m not taking his. I’ll make it on my own, thanks.”

Nick pulled up another chair. “So you’ve got a plan? Tell us about it.”

Ilsa frowned a little. Strike hadn’t mentioned anything before now.

“It’s something I’ve been mulling over for a bit,” Strike said. “Seems a shame to waste all the military police training I’ve got, but I’m going to take this opportunity to leave the Army, I think. I’ve given them a lot of years, and it’s a safe space to work but you’re also quite cocooned, the Army is its own little world.”

He sat up, looking more animated than Ilsa had seen him look in some time. “I can be invalided out now, no questions asked. I don’t really want to be tied to a desk anyway, and they’re unlikely to let me go out in the field. So I thought I might set up my own business.”

“Doing what?” Nick asked, intrigued.

“Exactly what I’m trained for, solving cases. Private detective.”

Ilsa looked surprised. “Do they actually exist outside of Sherlock Holmes books?”

Strike grinned at her fondly. “Yes, they do,” he said. “Admittedly, mostly for cases the police don’t touch, things where no one has actually broken the law, but they need a case solving. Marital disputes, corporate leaks, that kind of thing. But I bet there’s some interesting stuff out there that I could get my teeth into.”

“Sounds good,” Nick said. “But won’t you have start-up costs if you’re founding your own business?”

Strike glanced at him sideways. “I’m not taking Jonny Rokeby’s money,” he reiterated firmly. “I’ll get a bank loan.”

“Let’s have some coffee,” Ilsa said. “I’ll go.”

 


	7. Everybody Hurts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for PTSD.

“Right, you can do this,” Ilsa said.

Strike stood on his crutches, looking at the car. He could feel his heart beating faster already. _Stupid,_ he told himself. _We’re not even going anywhere._

Ilsa opened the passenger door for him. “Maybe just sit in it for now,” she said. Strike glanced at her, and the vulnerability in his eyes made her heart lurch with love. She stepped forward, her hand going to his arm. “It’s okay, Corm,” she said gently.

He nodded wordlessly and shifted himself towards the car. It wasn’t just the thought of getting into the confined space for the first time since the explosion that he struggled with. It was his new defencelessness, his constant feeling of being trapped in a body that he couldn’t use the way he wanted to any more, unable to move without physical aids. It made the car seem even more of a trap.

Clumsy, he negotiated the space between door and seat. Ilsa hovered, taking his crutches and resting them against the low wall. Finally Strike was standing next to the car, gripping the doorframe with white-knuckled hands. He hoped Ilsa thought the harsh edge to his breathing was due to physical effort.

She stepped back, and he lowered himself into the seat awkwardly.

“You’ll get better at it,” Ilsa said softly. Strike nodded, his jaw clenched, fighting off the blackness pressing at the edges of his vision, willing his hammering heart to slow down. _Breathe,_ he commanded himself. He swung his whole leg into the car, resting his boot in the footwell. Distantly he wondered where his right boot was now. Would he need it again? Did one fit old shoes onto a prosthetic leg, or have to buy new ones?

“I’ll just close the door...”

“No!” The word came out as a harsh bark. He saw through the distortion Ilsa’s hands go still, and cursed himself for his weakness.

Ilsa stepped back, not wanting to crowd him. “I’ll come round,” she said. She vanished from view and reappeared on the other side of the car, opening the driver’s door. She climbed in next to him and sat, pretending not to see his pale face, the beads of sweat at his temples, the shudder in his chest as he struggled to breathe evenly.

After long minutes, Strike seemed to gain control of himself. He took a deep breath, reached out and pulled the passenger door closed. Gently, Ilsa closed her door too, and the car became a cocoon, a feeling that had always meant safety in the past but to Strike suddenly felt constricting, coffin-like.

Ilsa was chattering now, something about the latest chapter of War and Peace they were reading. He appreciated her efforts to distract, but wished she’d shut up. Panic was trying to rise in his chest again, but he breathed his way through it, forcing it down with a physical effort.

Ilsa tailed off. They sat, long moments stretching.

“Start the engine,” Strike said.

“Corm, are you sure?”

“Just do it,” he gritted out.

Ilsa hesitated, then put the key in the ignition. She took a breath, turned it. The engine growled into life and the car shuddered a little.

Strike blanched. Ilsa hadn’t thought it was possible for him to get any paler. Cold sweat broke out on his face.

“Corm?”

“Fuck,” he muttered, scrabbling for the door handle that he couldn’t see suddenly. Panic engulfed him when he couldn’t find it. _“Fuck!”_

Ilsa killed the engine, scrambling out of the car and running round to his side. She wrenched the door open and Strike swayed towards her, trying to pull himself out of the car. “Corm, your leg...”

Strike lurched forward and threw up on the floor of the car park. Ilsa jumped back, narrowly avoiding having her shoes covered in vomit. Tears sprang to her eyes as he retched and heaved. She stepped to the side and bent over him, her arm around him. “It’s okay, it’s okay,” she soothed, rubbing circles on his back between his shoulder blades. She held him while he heaved, dry chokes now, and slowly stilled.

“Fuck, Ils...” His voice was raw, tears spilling down his cheeks. Ilsa clung to him and he clutched her arm, shaking and shuddering, his breath coming in gasps. Ilsa wept hot tears too, helpless in the face of his suffering.

Eventually, slowly, he stilled. Ilsa took a deep breath and wiped her eyes. “Let’s get you back inside,” she said unsteadily, and went to fetch his crutches from against the wall while Strike drew a trembling forearm across his mouth. Between them they managed to get him standing and balanced back on his crutches, and made their way slowly to a bench in front of the building overlooking the car park. Exhausted, drained, Strike sat.

“Want me to fetch a wheelchair?” Ilsa asked softly.

Strike shrugged, still shaky. “Dunno. Maybe. Let me just rest a minute.”

Ilsa settled herself next to him on the bench. They sat and looked at the car park. Soft spring sun shone down on them, oblivious to the trauma that had just played out below. Ilsa tucked her arm through her friend’s and dropped her head onto his shoulder. Strike rested his cheek gently against the top of her head. There was a long silence.

Eventually Strike took a deep, shuddering breath. “I think,” he said heavily, “that it might be time for me to stop resisting everyone’s efforts to get me to talk to the psychologist.”

Ilsa nodded sadly and squeezed his arm.

...

Ilsa was still fussing around Strike, making sure he was comfortable back in his bed and could reach everything he needed, when Charlotte turned up.

“Don’t say anything,” he muttered as she approached them down the ward. Ilsa glanced at him sideways but said nothing, just nodded fractionally.

“I’ll tell her when I’m ready.”

“Hey, I’ll not breathe a word,” she murmured, and straightened up to greet Charlotte with a smile.

Charlotte ran calculating eyes over them both, clearly sensing and disliking the extra closeness between them.

“No Nick tonight?” she asked, leaning over to kiss Strike on the mouth, unnecessarily ostentatiously in Ilsa’s opinion.

“He’s working late,” Ilsa said lightly, turning away to straighten a few things on top of Strike’s bedside cabinet.

“And he really doesn’t mind you spending so much time here?”

“No, he’s happy for me to support Corm. He comes along when he can.” Ilsa smiled at them both. “I’ll head off, then, he should be home by the time I get there.”

Strike nodded. “Thanks, Ilsa,” he said softly.

Ilsa considered not kissing his cheek, but decided to go ahead. She’d have done it without thinking if Charlotte weren’t here. She gave him a brief peck, squeezing his hand, then she smiled at Charlotte, said her goodbyes and left. _Don’t let her irritate you. It’ll be more helpful to Corm if we all get along._

...

“How was Oggy today?” Nick had not long got back from a run when Ilsa arrived home. He was freshly showered and vaguely looking in the fridge for food.

“Fine,” Ilsa said, a little dismissively. Nick frowned a little. Normally she was full of detail.

“Just fine?”

“Yeah, just fine.” She didn’t quite meet his eye. “Charlotte, on the other hand, was a pain in the arse.”

Nick recognised when his wife was deflecting, and wondered why, but decided not to ask. He wondered what she wasn’t telling him. Probably not a huge thing, but it added to his feeling of distance from her.

“What’s Charlotte done now?”

“Insinuating that I spend too much time with Corm, that you’d mind.”

 _I kind of do, just not for the reasons Charlotte thinks._ “That’s a bit mean of her. You know I’m happy you’re supporting him.”

“That’s what I told her. I’m going to go and have a quick shower.”

“Have you eaten?” he asked her.

“Yeah, I was hungry so I grabbed a sandwich from the cafe.”

“I’ll just make myself a quick omelette, then. Want anything?”

“No, thanks.” Yawning, Ilsa headed for the stairs.

Nick sighed a little. He busied himself in the kitchen, grating cheese, whisking eggs. Ilsa didn’t come back down again. She’d clearly gone straight to bed after her shower. He took his plate through to the living room and ate in front of the evening news, not really taking much in. He idly watched the comedy that followed, but it didn’t hold his attention.

He found himself gazing out of the window at the dark street outside, lit in uneven patches of orange under the street lights. He wondered what had happened at the hospital today that Ilsa wasn’t telling. He wondered if he should be making more positive steps towards going for fertility testing. He wondered if he should tell Ilsa how much he wished she was pregnant too, or if that would just make her feel worse.

Eventually he sighed, and went and dumped his plate in the sink and wandered up to bed too.

 


	8. Just Give Me A Reason

Nick wandered aimlessly round Waitrose in Wandsworth, not really seeing the products on the shelves, vaguely trying to find something he felt like eating. There wasn’t much point rushing home. Ilsa wouldn’t be there for ages yet. And she’d probably have eaten.

He picked up a bottle of wine and put it down again. They hadn’t had a glass of wine together since their anniversary. He wandered back to the fresh produce and looked at the salads. Nothing grabbed his interest.

 _Just pick something,_ he told himself. Eventually he selected a couple of marinated chicken breasts and a tray of roast vegetables. He could just put all that in the oven, and if Ilsa didn’t eat, he was sorted for tomorrow too. On impulse he went back and retrieved the wine.

He went to join the queue to pay.

...

Ilsa sat in a cubicle in the ladies’ toilets at the hospital, her hands clenched into fists on her knees, determined not to cry. Another month, another period. It was so unfair.

 _Deep breaths,_ she told herself. _Just need to get through the evening and get home._

She felt exhausted suddenly. Her period had been a day late, and despite all she’d tried to tell herself, she’d hoped. It was so exhausting getting her hopes up and having them dashed time and again. But still her treacherous heart hoped.

She steeled herself to leave the cubicle, wash her hands, pin a smile on her face, head back to Strike. _He needs you, pull yourself together. Think about this later._

But of course, tonight would have to be the night that Strike was more with it, more focused. She buried her face in War and Peace, but she wasn’t able to keep the slight wobble out of her voice, and he noticed immediately. He’d always been astute.

“You all right, Ilsa?”

“Fine,” she said lightly, but tears filled her eyes and her vision swam. _Stop it._

“No, you’re not,” he said gently. “What’s the matter?”

Ilsa had time to have the vague thought that it was utterly ridiculous that she had to deal with the disappointment at the exact moment each month that she was least well-placed to deal with it, hormonally, before she burst into tears.

“Hey, hey...” Strike took the book from her gently and laid it aside, leaning awkwardly to try to slide an arm round her shoulders as she slumped forward with her face in her hands.

Almost overbalanced, Strike drew back a little and rubbed her shoulder soothingly while Ilsa took shuddering breaths and struggled to pull herself back together. “I’m fine,” she muttered, hunting in her pockets for a tissue.

“Evidence would suggest not,” he said kindly. “Want to talk about it?”

Ilsa wiped her eyes and nose and sighed. “Not much to say,” she said. She hesitated, not wanting to be disloyal to Nick, but she knew Strike would be able to tell if she wasn’t truthful. “My period started.”

Strike frowned. “Is that not...ah.” Realisation dawned. Ilsa nodded miserably.

“How long?”

“A year.”

“Oh, Ilsa, I’m sorry.”

Ilsa gritted her teeth. “Don’t be nice, you’ll make me cry again.”

He nodded. “How’s Nick?”

“Less upset. He thinks it’ll happen in time.”

“He’d know.”

Ilsa sighed. “I know. I think he also thinks it’s not necessarily a given that we’ll do anything about it, medically. My girlfriends all just tell me to go to the doctor’s and start Clomid or IVF or something, but ironically he seems less keen on the medical stuff.”

Strike looked at her for a moment. “I don’t know much about it, but isn’t it mostly you that would have to have the treatment?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe he’s trying to spare you that.”

Ilsa sighed again. “I guess. He just keeps telling me to stop worrying, but I can’t.”

Strike patted her hand. “You should tell him that.”

“I know. It’s so hard to talk about, though. I feel like I’m failing him. Maybe he feels like he’s failing me. I don’t know.”

She squared her shoulders. “Anyway. No point thinking about it any more for another couple of weeks at least. Let’s get back to the book.”

“Come here,” Strike pulled her up into a hug, and she buried her face in his shoulder, taking a moment to enjoy the feeling of being comforted.

“This looks cosy,” Charlotte drawled as she approached them. Ilsa jumped and pulled back, but Strike was calm.

“You okay?” he murmured, looking at her. Ilsa nodded, eyes downcast. Strike sat back and smiled at Charlotte. “Hi,” he said, reaching for her as she bent over to kiss him, sliding an arm around her. Ilsa picked up War and Peace and began hunting for their lost page.

“You okay, Ilsa?” Charlotte asked, with what sounded like genuine concern. Ilsa nodded again, not trusting herself to speak yet.

“She’s fine,” Strike said. “How was the gallery?”

“God, so boring,” Charlotte replied. “Stupid modern sculpture. Just looked like random bits of wood to me.”

Strike laughed. “Don’t tell potential customers that.”

She grinned wickedly. “Might make the pieces more sought-after,” she said. “Art is a funny old world.”

Ilsa straightened up. “I might as well get going, give you guys some space,” she said. She put the book back on Strike’s bedside table and picked up her bag and coat. “I’ll see you soon,” she said, smiling at Strike. She knew she didn’t have to ask him not to say anything to Charlotte. He was one of the most discreet people she knew.

“I’ll get some coffees,” Charlotte said, and followed her out of the ward. They walked down the corridor together a little way.

“Can I help at all?” Charlotte asked.

Ilsa had to bite back a laugh. _As if I’d talk to you._ “I’m fine, thanks,” she said tightly. “Just tired.”

Charlotte tossed her head. “Have it your way.”

Ilsa glared at her. “It’s private,” she snapped.

Charlotte held her hands up. “Hey, don’t bite my head off. Just asking.”

“Sorry,” Ilsa said, but she was still cross and snapping. She knew it didn’t sound like much of an apology. Period pains nagged at her and her head ached. “Sorry,” she said again, more quietly. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Charlotte nodded and opened the door to the stairs that led down to the cafe. “Night.”

“Night,” Ilsa replied grudgingly. _God, she’s even more annoying when she’s being nice._

...

Yawning, Ilsa let herself in the front door. She headed straight for the fridge and grabbed a bottle of wine, hunted in the cupboard for a glass. _What a shitty day._

Nick appeared in the kitchen doorway as she was pouring wine into the glass. “You’re home, then?”

Ilsa sighed. “I’m tired, Nick,” she said.

“Yeah, well, so am I,” he said quietly. “And you don’t have to be so tired, you could just come straight home some nights.”

Ilsa felt tears pricking her eyes again. Today had just been too much. “Please don’t,” she said softly. “I’ve already had a run-in with bloody Charlotte. She thinks she can just swan in and take over...”

“For goodness’ sake, Ils, she’s his girlfriend,” Nick said. “She’s completely within her rights.”

Ilsa swung away from him and took a gulp of wine. “They’ve been back together all of five minutes. And he doesn’t need her kind of help,” she said. “You know she’s bad for him, unstable.”

“We haven’t seen her in two years. She’s been in rehab and had therapy. She might be much better adjusted now,” Nick tried to reason. Ilsa turned to face him again, scowling darkly.

“Yeah, right. She couldn’t wait to butt in on our private conversation,” she began. Then she remembered what she and Strike had been discussing and stopped abruptly, flushing.

Nick looked at her shrewdly. “What private conversation?”

“Nothing, it was nothing.”

Nick was very still suddenly. “What private conversation?” he asked again, his voice low.

Ilsa waved a dismissive arm. “My period started and I was upset, and you know how astute he is...” She was trying to make light of it, but her heart was beating faster suddenly.

“So you told him?”

There was a pause. Ilsa looked at the floor.

“Jesus, Ilsa, that’s our private business!” Nick exploded. “Maybe I don’t want my friends knowing what goes on in our marriage!”

“He’s my friend too!” Ilsa cried. “I needed someone to talk to, it’s been upsetting me...”

“Don’t you have girlfriends for that?” Nick demanded.

“Yes, but they’re all bloody pregnant or they’ve got babies!” Ilsa practically shouted. “There’s no one left, Nick, we’re being left behind. And I know that’s no one’s fault, but I’m so tired of waiting!”

It was Nick who turned away now, unwilling to witness the pain in her eyes. “I know,” he said quietly. “You’re not the only one suffering here. I want us to have a baby too.”

“It’s not the same,” Ilsa told him now, angrily. “Your friends are still your friends. So what, they miss the odd run or five-a-side football match. But they’re still there, at work, watching football, talking about stuff. I can’t have a single coffee these days without having to listen to baby talk and sleep schedules and nurseries.”

She drew a shaky breath. “I’m left out anyway,” she said. “They all meet in the week when I’m at work, because they’re off on maternity leave or they’ve only gone back part time. Evenings and weekends are family time.”

Nick sighed. “I know it’s different for you,” he said. “I get that, I do. But Oggy is my friend too and I wouldn’t have chosen to discuss this with him yet. Maybe ever. Now he knows anyway.”

“He was my friend first,” Ilsa said in a small voice. She knew as she said it she was being petty. Nick glared at her.

“It’s not a fucking competition,” he snapped. But she was right. There was a closeness between his wife and his old friend that went back to their childhoods. He was a relative newcomer in both their lives, a fact that had never been an issue before.

“Look, it’s just... It’s a guy thing, okay? I wouldn’t choose to have my mates know about this.”

It was Ilsa’s turn to glare. “Oh, yes, by all means, I’ll just suffer in silence to protect your ego.”

Nick flinched. He couldn’t decide whether it was the element of truth in her words or the harshness of her tone that stung more. They’d never been nasty to one another. He could see in her eyes she regretted it, but she stuck her chin up and held her ground. He sighed.

“Look,” he said, trying for reason. “This is a tough time for all of us, and I know you’re finding it hard. Maybe we should think about putting the baby thing on hold for a couple of months...”

Panic rose in Ilsa’s heart. “We’re thirty-two already, Nick,” she said. “We’re not putting it on hold.”

Nick sighed again and ploughed on. “I just don’t think we’re in a very good place to be thinking about it at the moment,” he said. “I think you’re displacing your worries about things between us onto Oggy, or transposing a need to care for someone—”

“You’re a gastroenterologist, not a psychologist,” Ilsa muttered. “Since when have you—” She saw Nick’s gaze flick away from hers guiltily, and she made the connection suddenly. “You’ve been talking to Sian!”

Nick looked defensive. “I asked a colleague, a fellow doctor, for advice—”

“Who happens to be your ex!” Ilsa shouted. “And you’re telling _me_ off for talking to a friend!”

“No, I was upset that you were talking to _my_ friend,” Nick pointed out. “There’s a difference. You don’t have to see Sian.”

“How convenient,” Ilsa snapped.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Ils...” Nick raked a hand through his hair, frustrated. They’d always been able to talk. He stood and looked at her helplessly.

Ilsa dropped her gaze. “I don’t want to talk about it any more,” she said crossly. “I’m going to bed.” She slopped more wine into her glass, slammed the fridge door and marched out. Nick heard her thudding footsteps on the stairs.

He sighed and slumped onto one of the kitchen stools. _Great,_ he thought. _She’s been in the house all of twenty minutes today and we’ve spent the whole time arguing._ Tears stung his eyes suddenly. _What’s happened to us?_

When he went upstairs, their bed was empty and the spare room door was firmly closed. He sighed again and went into their room, stripped off and climbed into bed. He lay for a long time looking at the ceiling.

 


	9. Need You Now

Nick was engrossed in writing up notes and updating files, his work spread out on his desk. For once, clinic had finished on time, and writing up was going well. He was hopeful of getting out of work on time today, although he wasn’t sure what he’d do with his time. Maybe see if some of the single guys were going to the pub. He was listless and disinclined to head home.

Nothing more had been said in the couple of weeks since their row, but Ilsa had barely been in. She had slept in the spare room for two nights, and on the third had come in late and simply climbed into bed with him. He’d woken next morning with her curled up against him as always. He felt as though they’d been orbiting one another slightly cautiously ever since.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in,” Nick called. He looked up as his boss’s head appeared round the door. “Bob, hi. This is a surprise.”

“Can I come in?”

“Sure, grab a seat.” Nick closed the file in front of him and put it back on the “to do” pile. “How can I help?”

His boss advanced towards him. Bob was a short, slightly stocky balding man in his 50s. What little hair he had left was grey, but looked like it might once have been red. His pale blue eyes always looked slightly watery. But his appearance hid a keen brain and a strong sense of fairness. Nick had been glad of the opportunity to work under him.

Bob was carrying two coffees, and passed one across. He sat down opposite and regarded Nick for a moment. Nick had a sudden sense of foreboding.

“Look, Nick, there’s not an easy way to say this,” Bob said. Nick’s heart sank. “I got called up to HR today. A former patient is suing the hospital for missing detecting his bowel cancer early. He was one of yours, a Mr Evans, last year.”

Nick frowned, trying to remember.

“Now, I’ve pulled the records and looked at his file,” Bob went on, “and there’s nothing in the original bloodwork or the colonoscopy that would suggest he was in the early stages of cancer. You were actually looking for Crohn’s at the time. Good, thorough note-taking, by the way. Easy to follow, detailed and clear.” He nodded his approval at the piles across Nick’s desk.

Nick nodded. The case sounded vaguely familiar.

“The thing is, Nick,” Bob said heavily, “Once you know he has cancer, and where, if you watch the colonoscopy back, there is a shadow there that _could_ be the beginnings of a lesion. Mr Evans has had a private colorectal specialist look at the footage, and of course they’re claiming they’d have spotted it. So we have to have an investigation.”

Nick sighed and ran a hand over his face. “So what happens?” he asked, slowly. Thoughts ran riot in his head, panic rising. He couldn’t lose his medical licence. _What else would I do but medicine?_

“Well, pretty standard at first,” Bob said. “I’m sure you’ve got nothing to worry about. We get a second opinion from within our own ranks, which will probably be me, and I’ll definitely attest to the fact that there was no reason for you to spot it. And we have to consult someone from another hospital, but Mike Johnson over at Guy’s is a pretty fair chap I usually hand stuff to.”

“Can I see the footage again?” Nick asked.

Bob sighed and sat back in his chair. He took a swig of coffee, and Nick sensed that he was thinking carefully about his answer.

“You can,” he said. “Of course you can. You’re always able to pull notes on past patients and review them at any point, you know that. But I find in these cases there’s not much to be gained from it.”

“All the same, I’d like to see,” Nick said tightly.

Bob rubbed a hand across his face. “Look, Nick...” he said, and paused. “Chaps like you, the thorough ones, the dedicated ones, I usually find punish themselves far harder than the system ever would. If you watch that footage, you _will_ see the shadow I’m talking about. It is there. And once you’ve seen it, you’ll be convinced you should have spotted it the first time. And then it’ll hang over all your future decisions.”

He took another mouthful of his coffee. “Before you know it, you’ll be doubting every decision you make, jumping at shadows, ordering biopsies that aren’t needed, just to assuage your own fear of being wrong again. You’re a damn good clinician, Nick, and if you didn’t spot it then it wasn’t there to be spotted.”

“Except it was,” Nick said bitterly.

Bob shook his head. “Not without the bloodwork to back it up,” he said. “Colonoscopies, scans, x-rays, they all show shadows and anomalies. No one person is made the same as the next, you know that. Probably a month or a couple of months later, there would have been markers in the other tests, you’d have been looking for cancer. But you weren’t. You were looking for Crohn’s, which he didn’t have. It was just unlucky that he happened to have the very beginnings of cancer while you were looking. None of his symptoms could have been attributed to it, it was too soon.”

There was a pause. Nick sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“What’s his prognosis?” he asked. “Evans?”

Bob hesitated. “Not as good as it would have been if his GP had referred him back faster,” he said finally. “Which I’m guessing they didn’t do because he had so recently been checked out. Or maybe he himself didn’t report the different symptoms soon enough. Still not your fault, Nick.”

Nick looked away, his jaw tight.

“I can’t stop you going through the file,” Bob continued. “But I’d advise against it.”

He paused again. The silence stretched, and Nick suddenly realised there was more coming. He steeled himself.

“Thing is, Nick,” Bob said slowly. “Because of the current climate, and the focus in the press on hospital mistakes and so on, HR are pressuring me to take you off patient contact until this is sorted out.”

Nick’s eyes flashed back to meet Bob’s, horror on his face. “They want you to suspend me?” Dread clutched at his heart. That was a tough thing to have on your record. It would dog him for years.

Bob shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Not as such. You could still be here, on duty and so on. We could find a way around it, route all your cases through me or something.”

“You’ve got enough on your plate as it is,” Nick exclaimed.

“Well, yes.” Bob agreed. “I stuck up for you, Nick, I told them there was no way you deserve to be suspended. But it’ll not be fun for you to be babysat, either. I was wondering... Well, maybe if you just weren’t here for a bit, for some other, legitimate reason...”

Nick closed his eyes, realisation hitting. “California.”

Bob nodded vigorously. “Jim’s dad had a heart attack last week and he’s pulled out. His place is available. If I lean hard on HR, I think I could get this sorted out before you get back. I wouldn’t have to suspend you, and no one else would ever need to know. We’ll just share your patients out, shunt a few down the waiting list or pass them to another hospital, just like we would have if you’d signed up for the trip from the start.”

Nick sighed. There was a long silence.

“I know you had your reasons for not going, and they’re personal,” Bob said gently. “But I thought maybe this might sway things. Talk to Ilsa, hey?”

Nick nodded. Bob gave him a rueful smile. “Sorry, Nick,” he said. “Hate being the bearer of bad news. This’ll all blow over, I’m sure of it.” He stood, empty coffee cup in hand. “I’ll let you have a think, but don’t take too long, eh? I can tell HR you’ve gone early today, but they’ll be leaning on me tomorrow. And if you do go, you’re leaving in a few days.”

Nick stood as well, and the two shook hands. “Regards to Ilsa,” Bob said, and left.

Nick dropped back into his chair and sat and gazed out of the window, unseeing.

...

Nick texted Ilsa as he left work. “Are you home tonight? Need to discuss something. Could get a takeaway?”

She replied in the negative, and for once, instead of just accepting it he rang her.

“Ils, could you please not go to the hospital tonight? I really need to talk to you.”

She hesitated, which irritated him. He didn’t ask for much, had been happy to step back and let her spend all her time supporting Strike. Their friend certainly needed it. _But tonight I need her more._

“Nick, I would, but Lucy and Greg are going to a school play, and Ted and Joan have gone back to Cornwall for a bit and I’m pretty sure Charlotte can’t make it tonight either.”

“He’ll be okay for one evening.”

“Nick, he’s got no one else.”

“And nor have I, not for this!” Nick snapped, his temper fraying at last. “I need you to come home tonight.”

She sighed a little, and he felt a flash of real anger. He could practically hear her thinking during the slight hesitation that followed. “All right, I’ll see you soon,” she said.

Nick managed to end the call before muttering “Don’t do me any bloody favours” at his silent phone.

...

He gave her a quick rundown of his conversation with Bob over kung pao chicken and Szechuan beef. Ilsa listened as she ate, and for once he could see he had her full attention, her keen lawyer’s brain mulling all the angles.

“What do you think?” he said at last.

Ilsa paused for a long moment, chewing and considering. Nick felt a sudden rush of love for her. She’d come home when he’d asked her to, really asked, and was focusing on his problem. Maybe things weren’t so bad after all. He felt as though he had his wife back for an evening.

“Well, obviously it’s got to be your decision,” she said at last. “And you know I’ll support you whatever you choose. But it does sound like going is a good plan.”

Nick nodded. He was coming to the same conclusion himself.

“I mean, I know we said the timing was bad,” she went on, “but actually it is only a month. And I’m spending so much time at the hospital anyway.”

A few months ago, Nick would have made a teasing comment about that, but something in the new reserve between them held him back.

“It is a wonderful opportunity for you, and it’ll further your career to have it on your CV. Whereas not going could possibly damage your CV?”

“Bob said he could reroute patients through his desk, but I hate to ask him to,” Nick said. “And not just because of the extra work for him. If I have made a mistake, and it comes out that he did that, his neck would be on the line too.”

“But you haven’t,” Ilsa said firmly.

“I might’ve,” Nick replied. “I haven’t seen the colonoscopy yet.”

“I thought Bob said you shouldn’t look?”

Nick gave a rueful smile. “We all know I’m going to.”

“Oh, Nick, I really think you shouldn’t. This will all blow over soon, you’ll just be torturing yourself.”

Nick paused, toying with his food, his eyes on his plate. “What if I fucked up, Ils?” he said quietly.

Ilsa put her fork down and slid off her stool, coming round the end of the breakfast bar to wrap her arms around him. “You won’t have.”

“But what if?”

She sighed. “Then we’ll deal with it and move on. You’re human, Nick. People make mistakes.”

 _Not when lives are on the line._ For some reason, her answer irritated rather than comforted him.

Ilsa hugged him closer, her hand sliding up under his shirt at the back. She kissed his cheek, lingering and then moving her lips towards his ear. She kissed the soft spot just below it and moved down to his neck.

Irritation began to melt into desire. Nick turned to her, capturing her mouth with his, and she hummed and pressed closer, deepening the kiss. They kissed for a long minute. Ilsa’s hand stroked across his back, and he curved his arm around her waist, swinging his stool and parting his knees to pull her close between his legs.

A nagging doubt crept into Nick’s mind as they kissed. He pulled back a little, a gentle smile on his face. “Is this a fun suggestion or a baby-making occasion?” he murmured.

Ilsa nuzzled into his neck, nipping gently at him with her teeth, sending sparks of electricity through him. “Does it matter?”

Nick stilled suddenly and pulled back. “Actually, it does, rather.”

She frowned at him, puzzled. “Can’t it be both?”

“Is that the real reason you came home this evening?”

“What? No! Nick, I came home because you asked me to.”

“You thought about it first, though.”

Ilsa coloured a little and looked away. “Okay, I won’t lie and tell you it didn’t cross my mind,” she admitted. “But I would have come home anyway.”

“Would you?” he replied, and got up to clear the dishes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part 1.


	10. Leaving On A Jet Plane

Nick and Ilsa sat side by side on the Heathrow Express, which was currently anything but. Suburban London crawled by. “Good thing I allowed plenty of time,” Nick remarked. “You didn’t have to come, you know.”

Ilsa laid her head on his shoulder. “I wanted to.”

He slid an arm around her. It was a rare moment of connection, these days. He rested his head on hers and breathed the scent of her hair. He had a sudden sense of how much he was going to miss her, how much he already missed her, and his stomach twisted. It was hard to leave her when things weren’t so great between them. They’d still not really had time to properly mend their fences from the row that had resulted in Ilsa sleeping in the spare room for two nights.

He curled his arm around her, feeling the curve of her waist and hip, and sighed a little. The day after his conversation with Bob, after a largely sleepless night when he’d tossed and turned and worried about his future, Ilsa had asked him in a very matter of fact manner if they couldn’t just suspend the difficulties between them and have sex, in the interests of project baby and particularly because they were going to miss the following month because he’d be away.

Nick had agreed, mostly to avoid another argument, and what had resulted had been the most unsatisfactory encounter of their marriage, with both distracted and Nick in particular worried about his job, about his future, about leaving her for a month when there was such distance between them.

They hadn’t had sex that wasn’t for the purpose of making a baby for so long, he’d thought after. He had also come to realise he’d largely stopped making the first move in recent months, waiting for Ilsa to tell him when the right days were. He’d vaguely thought that he ought to do something about that, but hadn’t wanted to rock the boat right before he left, when things were still a little strained between them, when their last time had been so disconnected. He’d hoped that she might suggest it last night, but she’d gone to bed early while he was still going through paperwork and schedules, checking and re-checking his tickets, passport, travel insurance, visa, international driving permit.A simple trip to the States seemed to require large quantities of paperwork. He’d gone upstairs as soon as he could, but she was asleep already, curled up on her side of the bed facing the wall. Where once he might have woken her with soft kisses and languid strokes and been sure of a welcome, he was reticent now. He’d lain and looked at her back for a while and then drifted to sleep himself.

The paperwork was filed away in his carry-on bag now along with a paperback and his mobile. It was a long flight, almost eleven hours to Los Angeles. He wasn’t sure whether he hoped he was sat with his colleagues or not. Eleven hours was a long time to fill with small talk.

They arrived at the terminal finally and trekked to check-in. Ilsa hung back and waited while Nick found the right desk and collected his boarding pass and checked his case into the hold.

“Coffee?” he suggested, wanting to postpone their goodbye. Ilsa nodded. She looked a little tearful all of a sudden. He wrapped an arm around her and they strolled the concourse in search of a cafe.

Ilsa spotted his colleagues before he did and stiffened in his arm. “You didn’t tell me Sian was going,” she hissed.

Nick sighed a little. “I did,” he said. “Sian, Araf and Mark.”

Ilsa scowled. “It’s one thing to go on a jolly halfway round the world, but quite another to go with your ex,” she muttered.

“Amongst other colleagues,” Nick reminded her. “Please, Ils, let’s not argue today.”

She nodded and made a visible effort, pinning a smile on her face to greet the other doctors, but the fragile connection between them was broken. Nick could have wept with frustration and loneliness.

The five of them had a brief coffee. Sian, Mark and Araf chatted excitedly about the upcoming trip. Nick had only the vaguest idea of the schedule, having not had the time to read it through properly like the others had. Ilsa kept glancing at her watch, and Nick knew she was calculating whether she could make it to the hospital that afternoon.

“We should head through security and hit the duty free,” Mark said presently, and they all nodded.

Ilsa said her goodbyes to the other medics, and Sian tactfully grabbed an arm each of Mark and Araf. “We’ll see you at security,” she said to Nick, and he nodded. He and Ilsa moved to one side out of the bustle of people.

He wrapped his arms around her and she clung to him, her breathing unsteady. He was transported for a moment back to the platform at St Austell station where he had had to say goodbye to her so many times during their first year of dating, and she had clung to him just like this. They’d been so young and in love.

Ilsa turned her face up to his, tears on her cheeks. “I love you,” she whispered.

“I love you too,” he replied in a shaky voice. “Don’t cry, you’ll set me off!” Tears stood in his eyes too. He’d never cried when he left Cornwall. Knowing he’d be seeing her again soon had always been enough. But he hated to leave now with so much broken between them that still needed sorting out.

Nick kissed her hard, holding her to him, breathing her in, their tears mingling, and then he drew back. “I’ll ring you as soon as I can, tomorrow some time,” he said hoarsely. Ilsa nodded, wiping her eyes.

“Go, before we make any more of a spectacle,” she said, sniffing, and he chuckled. He hugged her again, brief and fierce, and she squeezed him tight, and then they let go and he turned away.

He looked back as he approached security to wave, but he’d just missed her as she turned to leave the airport.

...

“Ilsa!”

She turned in surprise at the sound of Strike’s deep voice calling to her as she passed the rec room on the way to his ward. She hadn’t seen him along here for a while. He was sat in an easy chair, his partial leg propped up on a stool, his crutches leaning against the side of the chair.

She kissed him warmly on the cheek. “What are you doing in here?”

“Fancied a change. Thought I’d come and watch some telly.” He waved at the big TV on the wall. “Except it’s bowls.”

Ilsa grinned. “Exciting.”

Strike rolled his eyes. “Did you know they have slow-motion replays?”

“No way!” Ilsa was laughing now.

“I know. I mean, seriously. It’s slow enough as it is.”

“Nice to see you getting out and about,” Ilsa said, sitting down in a chair nearby. “Well, kind of out and about.”

He smiled softly at her. “I wasn’t entirely truthful before,” he said. “I did fancy a change, but I haven’t really been bothering. The psychologist said I should, that it’s good for me.”

It was the first direct reference he’d made to the appointments Ilsa knew he was having but hadn’t talked about. She smiled. “I’m glad you’re going. Is it helping?”

He put his head on one side. “I think so. There’s a lot to go through. But at least it isn’t all ‘tell me about your relationship with your mother’ like I’d feared. It’s mostly practical stuff, exercises I can do to retrain my brain out of negative patterns.”

Ilsa nodded. “Sounds good.”

“And we need to do the car thing again.”

Ilsa looked at him doubtfully.

“I know, but I took on too much last time,” Strike went on. “Smaller steps. Like, say I just sit in it and don’t close the door. And maybe we could bring takeaway teas or biscuits or something. Make it a pleasant experience.”

Ilsa grinned. “Sounds great,” she said. “I’ll stock the car up with biscuits!”

“And I am getting out and about, like you just said. Practising. That’s part of not feeling so trapped,” he said. “I’ve been out for two cigarettes already today.”

Ilsa laughed. “I’m not sure that’s what they had in mind,” she replied fondly. “I was beginning to wonder if you were giving up, I’ve barely seen you smoke since you’ve been in here.”

“Only because it’s so much effort,” Strike grumbled. “But I’m trying not to see everything as an effort. This is the new normal.”

Ilsa nodded.

“Anyway, shall we go and find War and Peace?” he asked, pulling himself out of the chair. Ilsa jumped up to pass him his crutches, but he waved her away. “Independence,” he said. “Also important.”

“You’re certainly bringing a lot from the appointments,” she said.

Strike nodded as he swung himself towards the door on his crutches. “There’s only so far you can get on bloody-minded determination. Need acceptance too.”

“Well, if you’re so independent now, can you make it back on your own? I’m going to detour to the cafe and grab us some coffees.”

He nodded again. “See you there.”

_He’s faster on those things already,_ Ilsa thought fondly as Strike crutched away down the hall.


	11. Run To You

“We haven’t done a wine night for ages,” Ilsa said to Claire at the end of a long day. The offices were quiet now, the daytime bustle over, the two of them sat at their desks in their shared office, reviewing files.

“No,” Claire agreed, but a hesitation in her tone made Ilsa glance up, on the verge of suggesting popping to the pub but somehow sensing that Claire didn’t want to.

“You okay?” she asked. She suddenly realised how long it had been since she had properly chatted to her friend about anything other than work or Strike’s progress. Claire had been quiet, now that she thought about it, and they hadn’t been out after work for some weeks, a fact Ilsa hadn’t noticed before now because she herself was so busy.

Claire nodded, but she didn’t look okay. She looked miserable, in fact, with tired lines under her eyes, her gaze not meeting her colleague’s. Ilsa got up and moved towards her. “Hey, what’s up?”

Claire sat for a long moment, looking down at her desk, and then slowly swung her chair to face her friend. Ilsa frowned, concerned. She and Claire had always told each other everything.

Claire raised her gaze to Ilsa’s, her eyes full of worry and love and fear, and suddenly Ilsa knew what was coming. Her heart plummeted and her stomach tightened into a knot. Spots danced in front of her eyes.

“Ilsa...” Claire began, and stopped. “Shit. Ilsa, I’m pregnant. I’m sorry.”

Ilsa closed her eyes, waiting for the familiar wave of pain to wash over her. Even so, she wasn’t prepared for how much it hurt, the thump of pain that hit her chest. That this friend, her best friend, her partner in crime, her drinking buddy, could be pregnant. Against all the logic she could tell herself, this was the ultimate betrayal.

“I didn’t know you and Steve were trying,” she said, faintly.

There was another agonising pause. “We weren’t,” Claire said finally, so quietly that Ilsa barely heard it. “It was an accident. I’m so sorry, Ils.”

Ilsa shook her head. “Don’t be,” she said, but her voice sounded harsh in her own ears. She made herself open her eyes and look at her friend.

Claire was talking too fast now, words tumbling from her. “I didn’t mean it, Ilsa, it just kind of happened and I know this is hard for you and I didn’t know how to tell you. So I’ve sat on it for weeks and I’m sorry about that, too. But I’m just trying to be honest, I can’t do anything else. I don’t want it to change anything between us. I love you.”

Ilsa gazed at her friend, at her earnest blue eyes. How could it not change anything? It changed everything. Yet another friend crossing to the other side of the chasm that grew wider with every passing month.

She took a shuddering breath. “It’s fine,” she said. “Congratulations.” She had to force the word out. “How did Steve take it?”

Claire shrugged, her eyes sliding away from Ilsa’s. “Okay, eventually,” she said. “We’ll work it out. Ilsa...”

Ilsa shook her head again. “Don’t.”

“Please don’t be angry with me,” Claire said in a small voice.

Ilsa made a sound that was half harsh laugh, half sob. “I’m not angry with you, Claire,” she said. “I’m angry with the world. I’m angry with the situation. I’m angry that you should have to feel like this is in any way a bad thing, when you should be able to celebrate.” Her voice was wobbling treacherously now. “I’m angry that...” She trailed off. “I’m angry that I can’t just be happy for you,” she finished quietly.

Claire nodded. At least she knew better than to offer sympathy. “Do you want to go and grab a coffee instead?”

Ilsa shook her head. She couldn’t think of anything but escape now. To get out of this tiny office and walk, walk away from her feelings and her friend. “I told Corm I’d go over tonight, need to get going actually,” she muttered.

“Ilsa...”

“I can just make the next train,” Ilsa said, glancing at her watch. “I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”

She paused, and then steeled herself to lean down and hug her friend. “Just give me some time,” she whispered, and then she turned away, grabbed her handbag and hurried out, hoping Claire hadn’t seen her tears.

...

“Claire’s pregnant.”

Ilsa was shocked to hear herself say it. She hadn’t realised she was going to blurt it out like that almost as soon as she saw him. But if she was honest with herself, that was why she’d fled straight here rather than going home to an empty house, a bottle of wine and maudlin music. She couldn’t face being alone.

Strike stared at her, startled, then recovered himself a little. “Shit, Ilsa. That must be tough.”

Ilsa laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “By fucking accident. They weren’t even trying.”

Strike reached for her hand. “I’m sorry.”

Ilsa allowed her hand to be squeezed, then threw herself into the chair by his bed. “God, Corm, it’s just so unfair,” she said, tears stinging her eyes. “Claire didn’t even want kids. She’s the least maternal person I know.”

Strike nodded. “That is monstrously unfair.”

Ilsa raked her fingers through her hair, her palms rubbing across her forehead. “And you know what? I’ve always been upset when people tell me they’re pregnant. But this time I’m fucking angry as well. And that’s even less logical.”

“Feelings don’t follow logic.”

Ilsa glared at him. “Why is the universe doing this to me? Why? I haven’t done anything wrong!” It came out almost as a wail.

Strike pulled a face. “You’re preaching to the converted there,” he said, waving a hand in the direction of his right leg.

Ilsa was stricken. “God, Corm, I’m sorry. You have so much more to deal with. Forget I said anything.”

“Hey,” he said gently. “Don’t be silly. You’re allowed to have problems too. Just as long as you don’t forget mine.” He winked at her.

Ilsa laughed tearfully. “What a pair we are,” she said. “We can sit and hate the world together for a bit.”

There was a pause, and then Ilsa sighed. “At least I get a month off from thinking about my problems,” she said grimly. “Can’t get pregnant when my husband’s five thousand miles away.”

“That’s the spirit!” Strike said, and was rewarded with a reluctant laugh.

“Right,” he went on. “I think this calls for mugs of the deluxe hot chocolate from the cafe. Squirty cream, marshmallows and a flake. Hand me my crutches? I’m buying.”

Ilsa smiled fondly, if a little mistily, at him she passed him his crutches. Strike pulled himself to his feet and they made their way slowly and laboriously out of the ward and down the corridor towards the lifts.

“If we were at home, we could claim this calls for hitting the wine,” Strike said. “But I think I’ve forgotten what beer tastes like.”

Ilsa glanced sideways at him. “Want me to smuggle you one in?”

He shook his head ruefully. “I wouldn’t dare,” he said. “I shouldn’t anyway on the various painkillers I’m on. And I daren’t risk falling. Can you imagine?”

Ilsa shuddered. “Maybe you’re right.”

“Then hot chocolate is as hard as it gets,” Strike said cheerfully. “That’ll have to do for drowning our sorrows. It is _particularly_ good hot chocolate.”

“I’d probably just cry if I drank wine, anyway.”

“Well, then. We can’t have that.”

Ilsa smiled softly. Her old friend always managed to make her feel better. _At least I have someone to turn to,_ she thought. She tried not to think about the fact that her husband was away with his ex. His tall, beautiful ex. She had a feeling the bottle of wine in her fridge was going to be opened when she got home tonight no matter how long she stayed here.

...

“I can’t quite believe how hot it is,” Nick said.

Greg, their host for the month, his California tan lending him a youthful look that belied his experience, grinned. “Wait till you get to Bakersfield,” he said. “LA is by the coast, it’s not so bad. Bakersfield is in the desert, in a goldfish bowl surrounded by mountains. Can be over a hundred degrees all summer.”

“Yikes,” Sian said. “That’s, what, high 30s? That’s a bit much for me.”

“It’s a bit much for anyone,” Greg said.

They were sat in the bar of their hotel, nursing a beer each. Araf, a few years younger than Nick with a close-cropped beard, was hunched over his phone, composing a long message to his wife who was home with their baby. He’d confessed that she’d not been wild about him being away for so long when the baby was little. “Her mother’s come to stay, though, so everything will be changed around when I get back,” he said ruefully.

Opposite him, Mark, a history buff in his 40s, launched into a brief history of the founding of Los Angeles. Greg moved to sit next to him to listen, fascinated. At the next table, Nick gazed into his beer and wondered what Ilsa was doing. He counted in his head. 4am at home. Not much, then.

“You all right?” Sian nudged his elbow and he jumped a little. He straightened up, pinning a smile on his face. “Fine,” he said. “Just wondering what Ilsa’s doing.”

She slid into the seat opposite him. “Sleeping, I would imagine.”

“Yeah.”

“You’re pretty quiet. Everything okay?”

Nick sighed. “Yeah.” He gave a rueful smile. “I’m the ungrateful bastard who doesn’t really want to be here.”

She smiled gently. “Things must be bad if you’d rather not be doing this. How come you came, if you didn’t want to? I assumed you’d changed your mind when Jim dropped out.”

Nick hesitated. No one was supposed to know about his work issue, but Sian was discreet and he’d appreciate a colleague’s opinion. “HR are looking into a case of mine from last year,” he said eventually, quietly. “Patient says I missed spotting his cancer.”

Sian gazed at him impassively. “And did you?”

Nick barked a short laugh. “I forgot how direct you are,” he said, smiling. “Bob says not. I didn’t have time to review the file before we came away.”

Sian nodded and took a sip of her beer. “Might be better not to,” she said.

“Yeah, Bob said that, too.”

“Wise man. Anyway, if Bob thinks you didn’t miss it then you didn’t. He’s widely regarded as one of the best in the field.”

“I know, that’s why I’m at that hospital, to work under him.”

“Well, then. But why did that mean you coming to California?”

Nick sighed. “HR wanted me taken off patient contact while it’s investigated, because of all the furore in the press about hospital mistakes. Bob said if I did this...”

“..no one ever need know,” Sian finished for him. “Neat solution.”

Nick nodded and picked up his beer.

Sian was watching him appraisingly. “What did Ilsa say?”

Nick looked away, evasive. “She doesn’t really get it. Thinks it’ll blow over.”

“Well, it probably will.”

“That’s not the point. She didn’t—” Nick stopped. He wasn’t going to criticise his wife to anybody, let alone his ex. “She’s got a lot on her mind,” he said eventually.

Sian looked at him for a long minute, long enough to make him uncomfortable.

“I get why this was a bad time for you to come away,” she said at last. “But you’re here, and it’s an incredible opportunity. Take from it what you can, yeah?”

Nick nodded.

“Good,” she said, getting up. “Now, come on, I think Araf has another twenty-seven pictures of his baby we haven’t seen yet.”

Nick laughed and stood too.

 


	12. Fun Fun Fun

Nick stood outside the Garden Inn, waiting in the cooling evening. Greg had not been exaggerating Bakersfield temperatures. The vicious heat of earlier in the day was dissipating and the air was more pleasant now. Nick was thankful for the lingering reluctance of his body to adjust to the local time, meaning that he was wide awake at 4am. He’d managed to run a few times before the heat of the day got too awful.

Sian joined him presently, followed by Mark and Araf. “Any sign of Greg?”

Nick shook his head. “Should be here soon,” he said. “Remind me again where we’re going.”

“Buck Owens’ Crystal Palace,” Sian said. “It’s a bar.”

“It’s a bit more than a bar,” Mark said. “It’s a memorabilia museum too.”

“Who’s Buck Owens?” Sian asked.

“Country singer, he was from round here,” Mark said. “He died last year. It’s a bar he founded that does live music as well, hosts a lot of country acts. I, er, bought a book about Bakersfield’s history in Barnes and Noble earlier.”

“Of course you did.” Nick grinned. “Any idea who’s playing tonight?”

“Not sure if anyone is, we might just be going for a beer. Greg arranged it. Ah, here he is. Good God, does everyone in Bakersfield drive trucks that size?”

Nick laughed. “Pretty much,” he said. “Hi, Greg.”

They piled into Greg’s truck and set off for the venue, chatting as they went. Nick gazed out of the window during lulls in the conversation and wondered what Ilsa was doing, his left thumb running idly across his wedding ring. _She’ll be asleep,_ he thought. _Must be four o’clock in the morning at home._ An image of her in their bed floated into his mind, and he longed to be there with her suddenly, not five thousand miles away on his way to a country music club. _I could be wrapped around her right now,_ he thought, imagining the smell of her hair and the comforting feel of her curled against him, asleep.

Laughter in the car broke into his thoughts. He gave himself a mental shake. _Make the most of this trip,_ he reminded himself. _It’s practically a jolly, and you pretty much got forced to come. You won’t get an opportunity like this again._ He dragged his attention back to the conversation in the vehicle.

They pulled up outside the venue. “Wow!” cried Sian, scrambling out of the truck, and Nick smiled fondly at her delight. The Crystal Palace was indeed impressive, built to resemble something from the Old West.

“It’s a museum dedicated to Buck Owens, too,” Greg said. “Worth a visit if you’re free during the day.”

They went in and found a table.

“Whoa, is that an actual car on the wall?” Araf stared. Greg laughed. “Yup,” he said. “We ordering food? This one’s on expenses, I got a budget to show you guys around a little. The burgers are great.”

They ordered beers and burgers and sat and enjoyed the atmosphere. A band were indeed playing, not someone Nick had ever heard of, but he hadn’t been expecting to.

Sian leaned over the table. “Is it...fancy dress night? Or, like, do people dress up to come here?

Greg looked around, puzzled. “What do you mean?”

Sian waved an arm. “They’re all wearing stetsons and huge belt buckles and cowboy boots.”

Greg laughed. “That’s just what they wear,” he said. “Bakersfield is an oil town originally. These guys are your modern JR Ewing. But don’t call them that.”

Araf looked around. “So they wear these hats just as...hats?”

“Yup,” Greg looked amused.

“Wow.”

“Wait till the music really gets going.”

The food arrived and they ate, chatting as they went. Mark and Greg gave them a potted history of Bakersfield and of Buck Owens. Nick, who enjoyed learning about new places, managed not to miss Ilsa for a whole hour.

Their plates were cleared. The bar was filling up now, but still the central space was empty. The floor was highly polished wood. “Looks like a ballroom dancing floor,” Mark observed.

“It is,” Greg said, but before he could explain further, the band struck up a new song and a cheer rippled round the room. People stood and left their tables, moving down to the dance floor. They lined up in rows, drifting into position, and began to dance.

The visitors watched, mesmerised. “They’re all doing the same,” Araf said. “How do they know what to do?”

“It’s a basic line dance,” Greg said.

“I want to do that!” Sian cried. “That looks ace.”

Greg grinned. “Come on, then,” he said, and stood. Sian jumped up and followed him down to the dance floor. Her colleagues watched, amused, as Greg taught her the basic steps. The whole floor swung this way and that in time with the beat, stepping and turning in unison. After a few giggling blunders and turning the wrong way, Sian was soon fitting right in. Nick watched fondly, seeing the fierce concentration on her face as she kept up with something the rest of the bar did so effortlessly.

Mark shook his head. “It’s like a whole different world,” he said. “Can you imagine this happening in a pub in London?”

Nick shrugged. “Not your standard pub, but I guess we do have dance clubs. I bet they don’t do this in most bars round here, either.”

His colleagues laughed. “Probably not.”

The song ended, and Sian and Greg came back to the table. Sian was slightly out of breath. “That is so much fun. You guys have to try it.”

“Maybe after another beer or three,” Nick said with a laugh.

“God, no, I think you’d have to be sober. It’s quite a knack.”

“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Araf asked, and Greg began to fill them in on their schedule.

...

Ilsa arrived on the ward that evening to find the curtains pulled round Strike’s bed. She paused by the nurses’ station. Usually this meant he was having bandages changed or the consultants were doing the rounds. It was unusual in the early evening, though.

Brian was at the desk, wading through paperwork. He looked up and smiled at her. “Hi, Ilsa. He’s had a good day today, physio went well.”

Ilsa smiled. “I’m glad,” she said softly. “Hoping he’s turned a corner a bit.”

Brian nodded. “He’s eating better, too - got a bunch of Tupperware for you. He’ll have the last one later.”

“I’ll bring more tomorrow,” Ilsa promised. She glanced at her watch. She’d better not stay too long if she had a batch of cooking to do when she got home. “Will the docs be long?” She nodded towards Strike’s curtained bed.

Brian glanced up, and then back at Ilsa. A smile twitched round his mouth, then he said with a poker face, “Er, that’s not the doc. Um...”

Ilsa frowned at him, puzzled.

Brian grinned. “Charlotte came to, er, borrow a box of tissues, and then went and shut the curtains.”

It look Ilsa a moment, and then she flushed red. “You mean she’s... Eww!”

Brian winked. “That’ll cheer him up like nothing else,” he said, grinning. “Though there are better ways. We have side rooms for the guys who are...having trouble sleeping, shall we say. You know, if they want to, ah, read during the night and don’t want to disturb the others.” He grinned unapologetically. “We then fail to notice that a wife or girlfriend hasn’t gone home. It’s not really allowed, but...”

Ilsa giggled. “But aren’t the beds really narrow?” she said. “And he’s lost a leg!”

Brian looked at her. “Please, dear,” he said. “You’re a married woman. There’s more than one way to skin a cat, you must know that.”

Ilsa squeaked a laugh. “Besides,” Brian went on, “he’s got two working knees. Or he will have. I’m sure his injury’s not going to cramp his style.”

“Oh, God, please stop,” Ilsa begged, giggling. “Right, I’m going to go and wait in the cafe. I won’t know where to look if I stay and wait here. Latte?”

“Oh, that would be wonderful, thank you,” Brian sighed. “So much paperwork tonight.”

Ilsa smiled fondly at him. “I’ll be back in...?” She raised an eyebrow.

Brian laughed. “I don’t know! Twenty minutes ought to be enough, don’t you reckon?”

“I don’t know either!” Ilsa replied. “People always assume, but we’ve only ever been friends, me and Corm.”

Brian smiled fondly at her. “Want to borrow a pager? I could page you when they’re done.”

Ilsa laughed. “Thank you, but I’ll just come back in twenty minutes,” she said. “If he asks, though, I wasn’t here, okay? I just arrived twenty minutes from now.”

Brian nodded. “Gotcha.”

Ilsa wandered down to the cafe, wondering if she should in fact just go home and start the cooking. Amusement fading, she felt lonely suddenly. She got herself a coffee and went to sit at a table with an abandoned Evening Standard on it, and leafed through the paper idly, not really seeing the articles.

She wondered what Nick was doing. She glanced at her watch. Half past six. She counted back in her head. So, half ten in the morning. On impulse, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and opened their text conversation. He texted her every night before he went to sleep so that she would have a message to read when she woke up. Often if he was up late and she was up early, they would have an exchange of messages.

Ilsa glanced around furtively, wondering if mobiles were allowed. Could she video call him? There were a handful of other people in the cafe, and one looked like a doctor. Probably best not. She tapped out a quick text telling him she was thinking of him, and went back to the paper, but she still couldn’t focus. Eventually she closed the paper, sighed, and just gazed out of the window.

_I’m not jealous of them,_ she thought. _I’ve never wanted that for me and Corm, it’s never even crossed my mind to feel that way about him. So what’s bothering me?_

If she was honest with herself, she knew. It was the same spark of possessiveness she felt when Nick was here, chatting so easily to Strike, talking about football. She knew, logically, that he needed other people, needed all of them. But she wanted to be the one to help him, to mend him. She wanted... She wanted to be necessary.

And as he got better, he was going to need her less and less. Ilsa sighed. She glanced at her watch, then finished her coffee and got up to go and order Brian’s latte.

 


	13. Save Me San Francisco

Nick sat to one side of the group, staring moodily into his third beer. He’d done his best to join in the banter, but his heart wasn’t in it. The macabre doctor humour wasn’t doing it for him tonight, but he had no interest in going back to an empty hotel room yet again.

He wished he could ring Ilsa, but she’d be asleep, it was the middle of the night at home. He tried to think back to when they’d last properly talked. His schedule in the day was so busy, and by the time he sat down in the evenings, she was in bed. _Bloody time difference._ A few days ago they’d managed a quick chat when he woke early, but she’d been in the office. Claire had tactfully gone off to the shop to get a sandwich, but it wasn’t the same as when they chatted at the weekends when she was curled up at home.

__

He wondered, too, when she’d last actually been mentally and emotionally present while he talked to her. Too long. All her news was of Strike, and though Nick was glad his friend was doing better, he wished she’d talk of anything else sometimes.

__

And now here he was, well down his third beer, which was not a good idea in his current frame of mind.

__

Sian slid into the seat next to him. “You okay?” she asked softly.

__

Nick nodded. “Just not feeling very sociable tonight.”

__

She smiled and patted his hand. “Do you want to talk about it?”

__

Nick looked down at her hand on his for a moment, and then his eyes slowly found hers. He withdrew his hand. “No.”

__

She smiled gently at him. “No worries,” she said. “We can talk about something else.”

__

Nick dropped his gaze back to his beer. “I’m not much company tonight,” he said quietly.

__

She slid her hand away, dropped it to her lap. “That’s okay,” she said. “We can just sit.”

__

Nick took a long pull of his beer. He was dimly aware that he’d not eaten tonight, and it had been a long time since lunch, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

__

“Hey,” Sian said softly, and he glanced up at her again. “You sighed,” she said. “You’re worrying me now.”

__

Nick raked a hand thorough his hair. “God, it’s just...” He trailed off.

__

Sian grinned suddenly. “You know what you need,” she said, and winked. Nick looked at her guardedly. “What?”

__

“To play hooky,” she said. “Let’s get out of here. I cannot listen to any more of Mark’s lectures on the history of San Francisco, I have only so much interest. And if I have to look at one more picture of Araf’s baby, I shall stick a straw in my eye.”

__

Nick laughed, cheering up a little. “What do you want to do?”

__

“I want to go and walk on the beach,” she said. “Can’t do it on my own. Come and chaperone me. You don’t have to talk.”

__

Nick nodded. “Okay.”

__

They left the bar and strolled down towards the beach. They passed a 7-Eleven and Nick paused outside, seized by a sudden, tipsy impulse. Sian looked at him questioningly.

__

“If we’re playing hooky, you know what I haven’t done for years and years?” he said mischievously.

__

“What?”

__

“Smoked.”

__

Sian grinned. “Now you’re talking!”

__

Feeling like a naughty teenager, Nick slipped into the shop. He bought a random pack of cigarettes and a lighter, and they resumed their stroll to the beach. The cool air was making him feel slightly less drunk, which he was glad of.

__

The beach was largely deserted, a couple of late-night dog walkers further along. Nick opened the packet of cigarettes and offered Sian one.

__

“I didn’t know you’d ever smoked,” she said, grinning slyly at him as she took one.

__

“I didn’t, really. Dabbled a bit in my teens. Used to steal the odd one from my dad’s packet, then Oggy and I smoked together in the pub. I was only ever a social smoker, and I gave up while I was at uni. You?” He lit her cigarette and then his own.

__

“Yeah, similar. Gave up at uni. Once you’ve seen the cadaver of a smoker...”

__

“Yeah.”

__

They strolled in silence for a while, smoking. Nick started to feel quite dizzy. “I’d kind of forgotten how gross it is, actually,” he said, and Sian laughed.

__

“Yeah, but we wouldn’t get the same feeling of being naughty without,” she said.

__

She glanced up at him as they walked, then swayed across to nudge his shoulder with hers. “You’ll feel better if you talk, you know.”

__

Nick sighed. “Got an email from Bob,” he said. “About the review. He’s backed me, but the other guy wants another opinion on the footage.”

__

“Ah.”

__

Nick stopped walking and looked at her. “What am I going to do if they uphold the complaint, Sian?”

__

She stopped too and ran a hand over her face. “I don’t think they will,” she said. “But if they do... Well, what can you do? You’ll just have to deal with it and move on. If you made a mistake then you made a mistake. You’re human, after all.”

__

They resumed walking. “Think they’ll sack me?”

__

“God, no!” Sian said. “I don’t think they’ll even rap you over the knuckles. Worst that’ll happen is Bob will have to approve your decisions for a bit. But I’m not sure they’ll even do that. You’re conscientious, Nick. You won’t make a mistake again. Or you will, because that’s the nature of the job, and of being human. But maybe you’ll know to ask for a second opinion if you’re not sure.”

__

“That’s the thing, though. I wasn’t not sure. I can’t ask for a second opinion on everything.”

__

Sian stopped again and looked at him. “This isn’t like you, Nick, to doubt yourself and second guess things and fret. What’s really going on?”

__

Nick hesitated a fraction too long. “Nothing.”

__

Sian looked at him, her head on one side. “Okay.” She turned away and began walking again, flicking the end of her cigarette into the sea.

__

“You can probably get fined for that, you know,” Nick said, following suit.

__

“Probably.”

__

There was a long silence as they walked. Presently Nick got the packet out of his pocket and offered Sian another cigarette. They lit up again and carried on walking.

__

“I miss my wife,” Nick said suddenly. _What are you doing?_ he asked himself. _Too many beers, you’re talking too much._

__

They carried on strolling. “Well, we’ll be heading home in a week or so,” Sian replied.

__

Nick shook his head. “Not like that,” he said. “It’s hard to describe, but... God, I don’t know.”

__

Sian smoked and thought. “She still visiting your friend in the military hospital?”

__

“Daily.”

__

Sian hesitated. “You’ve heard of the Florence Nightingale effect, right? Do you think they’re...” She didn’t finish the thought.

__

“No,” Nick shook his head. “Definitely not.”

__

“You sure? Because—”

__

“Definitely not. They’ve been friends for decades.”

__

“Yes, but when you introduce caring—”

__

“Even if she did...feel that, he wouldn’t act on it.” Nick said firmly. _What if it has crossed her mind? I bet he wouldn’t take a year to get her pregnant._

__

The thought, even the fact that he was capable of thinking it, shocked him into silence. _That’s your bruised ego talking. She wouldn’t think that._ He shook his head.

__

“Nick?”

__

Nick sighed again. “What if it’s me?” he asked in a low voice.

__

“What if what’s you?”

__

“What if I’m the reason she’s not pregnant?”

__

Sian stopped again and looked at him. “Okay,” she said. “This is a man thing. I know you know, medically, that that’s a possibility, and that it’s entirely unrelated to...performance or libido or any of that.”

__

Nick coloured slightly and looked away. “Yeah.”

__

Sian grinned at him suddenly, cheeky. “And I seem to recall you have no problems in that department.”

__

Nick just grunted, but a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth.

__

“So what is this?”

__

Nick shrugged. “I’m worried she wouldn’t see me the same.” His cigarette was almost finished, and he tossed it into the waves.

__

“Well, then, that’s an issue in your marriage, not in your fertility, wouldn’t you say? Or...” she paused, thinking. “Maybe she wouldn’t see any difference at all, and the problem is in your head. Or more specifically, your ego.” She threw her cigarette too.

__

Nick cast a glance at her but said nothing.

__

“I know it’s a cliche, but don’t underestimate the ability of your bruised ego to skew your thinking. What, you’re afraid she’s suddenly going to start seeing an old friend’s potential fathering ability if you can’t provide?”

__

Nick chuckled. “You make it sound pathetic.”

__

Sian shrugged. “It’s not pathetic in and of itself, that’s a spin you put on it. But is it how you feel?”

__

“I don’t know.” Nick sighed.

__

“But anyway, the Florence Nightingale effect is more about love than desire.”

__

Nick shook his head. “She’s not in love with him, that’s not what this is,” he said determinedly, as though saying it firmly enough could make it true. “It’s more...” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Like she needs to be needed.”

__

Sian hesitated. “How long did you say you’d been trying for a baby?”

__

“A year. More, now.”

__

“So in her head - because us women plan ahead on these things, you know - she’d have a baby by now. Even allowing for it to take a few months.”

__

“I guess.”

__

“That’s a whole lot of nurturing that needs to go somewhere. Don’t look at me like that, it’s not cod psychology. It doesn’t happen to all women, but she’s the caring type, right?”

__

Nick nodded.

__

“Well, then. Probably does her good to have someone to look after.”

__

“He’ll be discharged soon, and I’m pretty sure he’ll move in with his girlfriend. Then what?”

__

“She’ll come back to you. Or get her a puppy. I don’t know.”

__

Nick laughed. “Now that really is cod psychology.”

__

“It is,” she acknowledged, “but there’s a reason cliches are cliches. They’re often true. We should turn back.”

__

They turned and walked back along the beach. Sian was quiet, letting Nick think.

__

He sighed. “It’s just...” He began, and trailed off again. “There’s such a distance between us, and it goes back to before Oggy’s accident. I’m lonely,” he finished, so quietly that the soft lapping of the waves almost drowned him out.

__

“Hey...” Sian laid a hand on his arm and he stopped walking and turned to face her. She smiled softly at him in the moonlight, sympathetic, warm.

__

Warning bells went off in Nick’s head despite the three beers clouding his judgment. The feel of her hand on his arm evoked long-lost memories of other such evenings, other such walks, years ago.

__

“We should get back,” he said abruptly. He turned and began walking again. Sian caught up with him and fell into step beside him again. They walked for a while, quietly, until they reached the path that led back up to the road towards their hotel.

__

“I wonder if we’ve managed to miss the guys,” Sian said. “Mark’s probably gone to bed with some history tome to swot up on whatever we’re doing tomorrow so he can bore us all to death again.”

__

Nick smiled. “Probably.”

__

They reached the hotel and Sian glanced at her watch. “Bar’s still open,” she said. “Nightcap?”

__

Nick shook his head. “Going to get to bed, I think,” he said. “Another long day tomorrow.”

__

Sian nodded and they walked across the lobby to the lift. Her fingers brushed his, lingered a little, as they walked side by side. It was the lightest of touches, but it was deliberate. A clear invitation. The merest movement of his hand and he could have tangled his fingers lightly with hers.

__

Nick had a sudden, vivid memory of how her blue eyes, almost translucent, darkened when she was aroused, and felt a spark of desire. He squashed it down firmly as they entered the lift, but the air between them crackled with tension, with possibility.

__

_No one would ever find out._ The hotel was quiet. The lift was empty. All he had to do was turn to her, kiss her, crowd her against the side of the lift. He knew without a doubt he’d be welcome, and he knew they’d have a good time. They always had. Strong and confident outside the bedroom, she’d enjoyed him taking control within it.

__

Nick closed his eyes. _Stop it,_ he told himself. They arrived at their floor, and moved along the corridor to their rooms, only four doors apart. They reached Sian’s first, and again he knew that if he just followed her in, he’d be welcome. He could kiss her against the wall, press her down on the bed, pin her wrists down while he—

__

“Good night,” Sian said, a little husky. It was as though she knew what he’d been thinking. Or maybe she was thinking it, too.

__

He met her gaze and saw it, that spark of desire. It was such a long time since anyone had looked at him like that. She was tall, almost as tall as him. Much taller than Ilsa, he thought dimly. He hoped she couldn’t see reciprocal desire in his eyes.

__

Sian tilted her face up and kissed him on the cheek, lingering just a beat too long.

__

“Good night,” he replied, wishing his voice sounded steadier. He turned away and walked on to his room, refusing to look back, and heard the click of her door closing. He breathed a shuddering sigh of relief as he closed his own door behind him.

__

He undressed and climbed into bed and lay there, half aroused and annoyed with himself. He’d sobered up rapidly, and now castigated himself for his weakness. He shouldn’t have allowed a situation to develop where something between them was even a possibility. _You’re lonely, but that’s not the answer,_ he thought. _It would just be a pathetic attempt to boost your ego. That’s not who you are._

__

_You’ve done nothing wrong,_ he told himself. _Nothing happened._

__

_You wanted it to, though, for a moment,_ his conscience replied. _You thought about it._

__

And his battered ego stepped in, offering him an image of her spread out below him, wrists pinned beneath his hands, eyes dark, urging him _faster, harder._ Arousal pulsed in his groin again.

__

_Stop it!_ He was angry with himself, but also with Sian. _I needed a friend, not someone to make a pass at me,_ he thought. What had she actually done, though? Just a brush of fingers that could have been accidental. He had a sudden flash of insight - _maybe Ilsa is right to resent me spending time with her._

__

_We came as a group of four, and we should stay in a gang,_ he thought. What if Araf and Mark suspected something? What if rumours started at work? What if Ilsa heard them somehow? Panic engulfed him. With the current distance between them, would she ever understand? Suddenly the fear of losing his job paled into insignificance next to the thought of losing his wife.

__

He longed for Ilsa suddenly. He missed her so much, it was like a physical pain in his chest.He picked up his phone, calculated the time difference. It was seven in the morning at home, not too early. He dialled her mobile.

__

Ilsa answered on the fifth ring, husky and sleepy, and desire surged in him again at the sound of her voice.

__

“Morning, gorgeous,” Nick murmured, and heard the sleepy smile in her voice. “Hey, you. What time is it over there?”

__

“Eleven. Just got into bed.”

__

“How are you?”

__

“Horny and missing my wife.”

__

He heard her chuckle, her voice still rough with sleep but definitely sounding interested. “Is that so? Want me to tell you what I’d be doing to you if I was there?”

__

“God, yes,” he groaned, switching the phone to his other ear, his hand moving to his aching erection. He heard the shuffle as she moved herself around in the bed, getting comfortable. He closed his eyes as he stroked himself, imagining her with tousled blonde hair and languid eyes. This wasn’t going to take long.

__

“Are you touching yourself?” she asked him, her voice low.

__

“Yes,” he gasped.

__

“Okay, then...” And she talked him through it, her voice in his ear taking command, issuing murmured instructions, guiding him though his arousal until he groaned and came across his hand and stomach, breathing harshly in her ear.

__

“You were horny,” Ilsa said softly, her voice warm.

__

“I miss you,” he panted, trying to get his breath back.

__

“Only ten days now,” she said. “I can’t wait to see you.”

__

“Me too,” he murmured, relaxing, sleepy now.

__

“I’ll let you get cleaned up,” she said. “Night night.”

__

“Ilsa? I love you.”

__

“I love you too.”

__

Nick hung up. He vaguely contemplated a shower, but even as he lay thinking about it, he drifted into sleep.

__

 

__


	14. Deep Deep Ocean

“So this is it? This is all we need to do?” Ilsa glanced across at Strike from her position behind the wheel. Her door and his were both wide open, the engine unstarted.

Strike took an unsteady breath. “It’s enough for now, believe me,” he said quietly.

Ilsa nodded and took the packet of biscuits from the dashboard. She opened them and offered him one, noting that the hand he took it with was shaking. Not time to pass him his tea, then. Two takeaway teas sat steaming gently in the cup holder between their seats.

_Distract him,_ she thought. “So, you don’t think I need to worry that my husband is on a month-long jolly with his ex-girlfriend, who is taller and skinnier than me, and a doctor to boot?”

Strike cast a sideways glance at her. “Not in the least,” he said. “This is Nick we’re talking about, remember?”

Ilsa nodded, but she wasn’t convinced suddenly. She wondered why her brain had gone in this direction. Anything would have done to serve as a distraction. _I could have asked him how his nephews’ visit went, or if he’s happy that Ted and Joan are back at Lucy’s for a bit, if he’s had any further thoughts on founding a detective agency. Why did I bring that up?_

Strike must have wondered the same, because he was looking at her appraisingly now. “ _Are_ you worried?”

Ilsa hesitated. “I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s just...”

“What?”

“We had an argument right before he left. About her. He’s been talking to her about stuff.”

“You’ve been talking to me about stuff. It doesn’t have to mean there’s anything untoward going on.”

“I know.” Ilsa sighed. “I’m probably imagining it. I just miss him.”

Strike reached across and patted her hand. “I know,” he said gently. “But this is you guys. He was besotted with you the moment he met you, and again when you guys got back together six years later. He left Sian for you without hesitation, remember.”

Ilsa nodded. “I know,” she said again. “I’m being silly. It’s just been so difficult this last year. He doesn’t listen to me on the baby thing.”

Strike sighed and looked away. “I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he said. He paused. “Does he know I know?”

“Yes,” Ilsa said, but Strike didn’t miss the slight air of guilt in her tone, nor the flush that crept up her neck. _He didn’t want me to know, then._

He decided to try a different tack. “How’s it going with Claire?”

Ilsa sighed. “It isn’t. We just talk about work stuff. I guess she doesn’t want to upset me by mentioning it, and I’d rather pretend it’s not happening. So we just...don’t. We haven’t even been for a coffee.”

“That must be hard.”

“It is.” Ilsa’s eyes filled with tears. _I miss her._ “I guess she’ll start showing soon, and I’ll have to face that every day.”

Strike nodded. “There’s not a lot I can say to that,” he said. “You’re just going to have to try to find some kind of acceptance, like I’m trying to do. But hey, there’s every chance it’ll still happen for you.”

Ilsa shot him an angry look, startling him. “That’s what Nick says. And you’re probably both right. But what if it doesn’t? And in the meantime, how do I live with the not knowing?”

Strike gazed at her, understanding suddenly. “You’re right, I’m sorry. It doesn’t help, just telling you it’ll probably be fine. Because you’re right, it might not be. But this is you and Nick. You’re strong together, you always have been.”

Ilsa could have burst into tears at that. Were they? _Change the subject again._ She picked up Strike’s tea and passed it to him. “What’s the next stage for this, then?”

Strike took his tea, his hands steady now. “Well, I haven’t freaked out or puked, so I think we can call this a success,” he said drily. “Same again tomorrow, but maybe we close the doors?” He chuckled, and Ilsa laughed too and nodded. She raised her tea to him.

“Cheers.” They clinked cups, and drank their tea in companionable quiet.

...

Nick pulled his jacket tighter around him. It was the first time since arriving in California he’d been anything other than hot. He wasn’t exactly cold now, but the sea breeze and spray on Monterey Bay were definitely cool.

The boat droned along steadily, heading directly out towards the Pacific. He sat on the bench at the stern and watched the California coast slowly shrinking. Monterey was pretty, and the drive down the coast from San Jose had been spectacular. They had all taken turns driving the car that they’d hired as a group, but Mark was the one who most actively enjoyed the driving so he was doing the lion’s share. Nick had enjoyed the views from the passenger seat, and Sian and Araf had chatted from the back.

Things had been a little strained with Sian since San Francisco, mostly because Nick was keeping a careful distance, mindful that the one thing worse than anything having occurred would be rumours of such a thing that were founded on nothing. He had made sure they hung out in groups only, and excused himself to bed early a few nights, leaving Sian with the others. There was a growing connection between her and Greg, he was pleased to note. That would definitely deter any thoughts anyone might have about the two of them.

So he sat now at the back of the boat, watching the water go by, content to let the others chat amongst themselves. He was benefitting from time alone, time to think. Time and distance to look at his marriage with fresh eyes. He wondered if Ilsa needed more support from him on the baby business. Support that she was currently getting from Strike, perhaps. He wondered if her focus on him was as much about her own problems as about their friend’s. Nick wished, yet again, that he could go home and ask her all these things.

_Only a few more days,_ he thought. They’d enjoyed San Francisco and Oakland, packing in several conferences in quick succession, including San Jose. They had two days free now before the last conference back in LA and then the flight home. _I’ll be home on Sunday._

He smiled at the thought of seeing his wife again. He’d have been away a month by the time he got back to Wandsworth. They’d not been apart this long since they’d reunited seven years ago, and he missed her. _I was already missing her before I left,_ he thought. He resolved to sit down with her and talk properly when they got back, try to explain to her how much he needed her. He’d not coped well with the distance between them, and their arguments had upset him. They’d never really argued in all their years together. The emotional distance between them was like a physical pain, not helped by the physical distance. They chatted regularly on the phone and over Skype, but it wasn’t the same as being with her, being able to properly connect. Nothing had been sorted out. By unspoken agreement they were keeping things light and happy while they were apart. Nick both longed and dreaded to go home.

Sian and Mark were poring over a book Mark had produced about the wildlife they might see. They’d already seen seals, a variety of sea birds including an albatross and a couple of Risso’s dolphins. Mark was hoping to see orca. Nick would have liked to see a blue whale, but he knew that was luck of the draw. It was getting towards the right time of year, though.

One of the guides came round to encourage people to get cameras ready and start to watch the surface of the water. Nick put his thoughts aside to concentrate on getting some good pictures to send to Ilsa.

...

Ilsa was reading the last few pages of War and Peace when Charlotte turned up that afternoon. She closed the book and smiled at Strike. “I’ll get going, give you guys some space,” she said.

Strike smiled at her. He was looking more relaxed these days. “Thanks, Ilsa,” he said.

Ilsa gave his hand a squeeze, smiled at Charlotte and tucked the book into her handbag. She waved goodbye to Brian as she left the ward.

She ducked into the ladies’ loos on the main corridor. It was a slow journey back into London on a Friday evening, and she’d had two big mugs of tea.

When she emerged from the stall, Charlotte was leaning on the counter by the sink.

“Hi,” Ilsa said, nervous suddenly at the look in the other woman’s eyes, almost predatory. She moved to the sink to wash her hands.

“You don’t have to visit every day, you know,” Charlotte said.

“I know,” Ilsa replied lightly, squirting the soap. “Just doing my bit.”

“And all the reading, and the food, and the trips out to the car,” Charlotte went on. She’d not been amused to find Strike and Ilsa sitting in the car talking the previous day. Ilsa knew why. They’d just completed a slow circuit of the car park and Strike had been delighted with his progress, chatting away, grinning.

Ilsa pinned a smile on her face and carried on rinsing her hands. _Don’t let her annoy you._ “Just being a friend.”

“It’s a bit more than that, though, isn’t it?” Charlotte murmured, leaning close. “Hours reading to him, hours at home cooking and baking, taking him for little drives. It’s obvious you’re in love with him.”

Ilsa gasped. She felt as though she’d been slapped. “I am not!”

Charlotte raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Nick still away, is he?”

“What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Must be lonely. Easy to get confused.”

Ilsa glared. _You bitch,_ she thought. “I am not confused in the least,” she said firmly. “I’m helping a friend. My only concern is his health, physical and mental. I’m the friend, you’re the girlfriend.”

Charlotte smiled triumphantly. “And don’t forget it,” she said. “He’ll be out of here soon, and he’s moving in with me.”

Ilsa looked at her. “I don’t think he’s decided,” she said.

“He’ll move in with me,” Charlotte said confidently. “My building has a lift and my flat is open plan, loads of room. And I offer plenty of...rehabilitation services.” She winked.

Ilsa swallowed a lurch of nausea. “I’m sure that’ll suit him perfectly,” she said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to get going.”

“Yes, of course,” Charlotte stood back politely as Ilsa stepped past her. “Don’t worry, Bluey’s very discreet. He wouldn’t say anything to Nick.”

_Don’t give her the satisfaction,_ Ilsa told herself. _She’s playing mind games with you. Cormoran doesn’t think that._

She marched past Charlotte and out the door. She refused to look back, traversing the length of the corridor and passing through the double doors at the end without a flicker of a glance behind, not wanting to give away her trembling anger.

Despite her resolve, a flicker of doubt and fear nagged at her. What if Strike did think the same?

 


	15. Go Your Own Way

Nick sat on the terrace outside the hotel overlooking LAX. It was quite pleasant to watch the planes coming in and out, regular as clockwork, in the fading light. _I’ll be on one of those tomorrow afternoon,_ he thought. He couldn’t wait to get home. He longed to see Ilsa, to talk to her, to make things right somehow. Exactly how, he wasn’t sure.

He glanced round, and saw Sian approaching with two beers. She put one in front of him and sat down in the chair opposite. “Peace offering,” she said.

Nick grinned wryly. “You don’t need to make peace with me,” he said. “We’re good.”

Sian gave a small smile. “Yeah, but we’re not,” she said. “You’ve been keeping your distance.”

Nick raised an eyebrow at her. “Do you blame me?” he said, and she chuckled. “I guess not.”

“I’ve got a lot more to lose than you, Sian. Imagine if rumours started. That’d be bad enough if they were true, but they wouldn’t be.”

Sian dipped her head in acknowledgment. “If it helps, Mark and Araf are just right through that window, watching the baseball highlights,” she said. “We’re fully chaperoned.”

Nick laughed a little and took a drink from his beer. “I shall miss California beer,” he said, attempting to change the subject. “I like it.”

“Me too,” she said. “I drink wine at home, but I’d drink beer if it tasted like this.”

She hesitated. “Look, Nick,” she began. “About San Francisco...”

He waved a hand. “No need. We’re good.” _Please don’t talk about it._

“Yeah, but we’re not, because you’re avoiding me. But you don’t need to. I gave you an opening, you didn’t take it. End of story.”

Nick stared at her. “Does it ever occur to you to just sweep stuff under the carpet like normal people?”

She grinned, disarming him. “Nope! Everything out in the open, no elephants in the room then,” she said. “You know me.” Against his will, Nick smiled, nodding.

“But listen,” she went on. “It felt like such a cliche, like, oh, look, men and women can’t be friends, there’s always a danger something will happen. And that’s not who I am, normally. You know that. I guess it was just the feeling of being away, and playing hooky, and... Well, I am still very fond of you, you know. And you’re an attractive guy.”

Nick flushed a little. “You’re not making things any better,” he said, and she laughed.

“What I’m trying to say is, it won’t happen again, and I mean it. It really won’t. I like you, Nick, you’re a good friend and colleague and I can’t believe I managed to jeopardise that by...offering something I should have known you’d turn down.”

Nick drew a shaky breath. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ve been kind of beating myself up about it.”

She nodded. “I knew you would be. Please don’t. And please don’t avoid me. I won’t make that mistake again. I’ve never seen anyone quite so in love with his wife.”

Nick nodded too. “I need her more than I realised,” he confessed.

“You should tell her that,” Sian said, and he nodded. She leaned forward conspiratorially. “One question, though, about that walk...” she added mischievously.

“What?” Nick couldn’t decide whether he was amused or alarmed.

“You still got those cigarettes?”

Nick laughed loudly. “I have,” he said, fishing them from his pocket. “Last chance, they’re going in the bin when we leave.”

“Best smoke them, then,” Sian said with a wink. “Shame to waste them.”

They lit up and smoked in companionable silence for a while.

“Thank you,” Nick said suddenly.

“What for?”

“For being a good friend. Apart from...trying to hold my hand.”

She grinned. “You’re welcome. And can we please never, ever mention that again?”

“Agreed.”

“Thanks.”

“But, you know. It’s been good to have someone to talk to, someone discreet.”

Sian nodded and raised her beer.

The terrace door opened, and Araf approached with Mark hot on his heels.

“You guys never said you had cigarettes!”

Nick grinned at the gleam in Araf’s eye and passed him the pack. He and Mark drew up chairs, Sian budging round to make room.

“Not a word to my wife,” Araf said, reaching for the lighter.

“God, no, nor mine,” Nick agreed, offering the pack to Mark, who shook his head.

“What happens in California stays in California,” Sian said. Nick didn’t look at her.

“Great view of the airport,” Mark said. “You know, it was built in 1928...”

There was a chorus of groans from around the table.

“Mark, please, stop,” Araf begged. “No more history lectures. It’s our last night.”

Mark glared at him. “No more baby pictures, then,” he said.

Araf laughed. “Deal!”

They raised their glasses. “To a good trip.”

...

Ilsa pulled up outside the hospital and parked the car. She took a deep breath. _I’ll not be intimidated out of seeing my friend by his bitch of a girlfriend,_ she thought determinedly. But her hands were shaky. At least there was no sign of Charlotte’s Lexus in the car park.

When she arrived on the ward, Strike wasn’t in bed. He was pottering about on his crutches, his trouser leg pinned up, a hold-all on the bed. He gave her a huge grin as she approached. “They’re letting me out!”

Ilsa grinned back, delighted at his joy. “I thought that wasn’t till Monday.”

“It wasn’t, but one of the physios called in sick for tomorrow so they can’t do everyone, and I promised faithfully to do all my exercises. I have to come back on Tuesday as an outpatient, but I’m a free man!”

Ilsa hugged him. “That’s great, Corm,” she said. She was angry with herself for feeling sad. She was losing him to Charlotte now. It wouldn’t be the same.

Strike hesitated, then sat down on the bed. He patted the space next to him. “Come here,” he said gently. Ilsa sat.

“Ils...” he began, and trailed off. He started again. “Ilsa, you’ve been so fantastic,” he said. “All your visits, and the food, and War and Peace. And the car. Your moral support has been just...life-saving. I can’t thank you enough. But...”

There was a long pause. Ilsa looked at the floor and chewed her fingernail.

“You’ve been here a lot, Ilsa. A lot. I only really realised when I looked back, now I’m feeling better. Nick—”

“He’s fine,” Ilsa said quickly, too quickly. “He’s on his way home, actually.”

Strike nodded. “Good,” he said. “Is... Is everything okay with you guys?”

“Yes,” Ilsa said, still looking at the floor, knowing she didn’t sound definite enough.

Strike sighed. “I don’t want to come between you.”

“You’re not. He’s happy for me to support you.”

“You’ve been here every day for weeks, Ilsa. And I thank you for that. But you can have your life back now. I’m in a better place in my head, and I’ve got Charlotte.”

Tears sprang to Ilsa’s eyes. “It’s not a case of getting my life back, Corm. I wanted to be here. I wanted to help you. Don’t push me away.”

Strike took a deep breath and put his hand on hers, feeling like a complete heel already. “I’m not pushing you away, Ils,” he said gently. “But why don’t you take this opportunity to take a step back, eh? Reevaluate. I’m sure Nick misses you.”

Ilsa closed her eyes, tears spilling onto her cheeks. She’d missed Nick too, but now he was coming back, and all the things they hadn’t sorted out before he left would rear their heads again. And she wouldn’t have her old friend to confide in because he’d be back in Charlotte’s clutches. She was going to miss him so much. It was too confusing. And she didn’t even have Claire to talk to any more.

“Hey,” Strike said gently, dropping an arm over her shoulders. “It’s a big adjustment for all of us. You’ve so been there when I needed you, Ilsa, thank you. But I’m okay now.”

_But I’m not,_ she thought. _I liked that you needed me. Now I have to go back to...what? Just waiting to be pregnant?_

The thought shocked her. _Is that what this is? My need to be needed, to avoid reality, hiding under concern for a friend. A friend who is now very gently trying to tell me to back off._

Hot mortification swept through her. _What must they all think of me? Charlotte thinks I’ve fallen in love with him, what if Corm does too? Or Nick? Or all the staff?_

She cleared her throat and straightened up. “You’re right,” she said, forcing her voice not to wobble. “It’s great timing, actually. You can get settled in with Charlotte. I can spend some time with Nick, I’ve really missed him. It’s been nice to come here as a distraction from an empty house, but I won’t miss the drive!” She gave a light laugh.

Strike didn’t look convinced, but he tactfully dropped the subject.

Ilsa stood, businesslike. “So you’re getting all packed up, then?”

Strike nodded. “I’ve got a surprising amount of stuff here, actually,” he said, looking around. “Might have to get Charlotte to bring a couple of boxes.”

They busied about together, setting out all his things, calculating how many boxes he’d need. Ilsa forced herself to stay light and friendly, squashing down the tangle of thoughts and feelings in her head and heart. As soon as she plausibly could, she escaped, pleading a need to shop and tidy before Nick got home.

Strike hugged her warmly as they said goodbye and tried to thank her again, but she dismissed him airily. “It’s what friends are for,” she insisted. “See you around.”

Ilsa was surprised by a hug from Brian too as she passed the nurses’ station, a gesture of affection that was very nearly her undoing. She held herself together with difficulty, promising to bring Strike to one of his follow-up appointments so she could pop up and say hi.

She drove home in a numb haze, parked the car, let herself into the house and went straight upstairs. She pulled the curtains to shut out the light, changed into a comfy nightshirt and crawled into bed, burying herself in a cocoon under the duvet. Only then did she allow herself to cry, wracking sobs and hot tears.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End of Part 2.


	16. Bed Of Roses

Late on Sunday morning, Nick climbed out of a cab on Octavia Street and hauled his suitcase up the path to his front door. He let himself into the house. Ilsa’s jacket was on the peg and her bag on the kitchen counter, but there was no sign of her. He left his case and rucksack in the hall and went slowly up the stairs, and frowned a little, puzzled, at the lump under the duvet of their bed. It was almost lunchtime.

He hesitated in the doorway, gazing at the tousled hair on the pillow, just drinking in the sight of her, the nearness of her, and then went in.

Ilsa was asleep with her back to him. Nick removed his trousers and shirt and climbed into the bed behind her, moving over to press himself against her back, his arm sliding around her waist. She was warm and soft and cosy.

“Hey, sleepyhead,” he murmured into her hair.

Ilsa turned her head, pressing her body back towards him, relaxed and inviting, smiling sleepily. “You’re home.”

She felt amazing, curvy and familiar. Nick pulled her closer. He nuzzled into her hair, sliding a hand across her stomach, breathing in the familiar scent of her, pressing nearer. Urgent desire flooded him. It had been weeks.

Ilsa hummed as she woke further, rolling towards him with a languid smile, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him close. The reserve that had existed between them for so long, since the rows, since Nick left for California, was suspended. He groaned at the feel of her, desperate for her suddenly.

He rolled onto her, burying his face in her neck, kissing and sucking at her skin, trying to taste her and feel her and smell her all at once, and Ilsa hooked her legs over his as he rocked against her, pushing her hips back at his. Nick fumbled with her nightshirt, sliding a hand up under it.

She reached down and pushed her knickers off. Nick pulled back long enough to remove his boxers while Ilsa wriggled herself free of her knickers, and then he was back on top of her. There was no preamble. She wrapped her arms and legs around him again, encouraging him closer, and he drove into her with a deep groan. Pleasure swamped him and he lost control almost immediately, thrusting hard against her, growling into her shoulder. A tidal wave of fierce arousal and need swept over him. Within a minute he was coming, hard, a shocked cry escaping him at the force of his orgasm as he pulsed into her.

He collapsed on top of her, shuddering and breathing hard, his heart pounding. Ilsa hummed and hugged him tight.

“Shit, sorry,” Nick muttered as he recovered himself a little. Ilsa chuckled against his cheek. “It’s okay,” she murmured, still sleepy. “Welcome home.”

With a rueful little laugh, he rolled off her and lay next to her, still getting his breath back, and she curled in to him and settled her head on his shoulder, draping an arm over him. He turned his head to look at her, kissed her temple. “What about you?” he whispered softly, running his hand from her shoulder down to her hip, but she just snuggled closer. “‘M fine,” she mumbled. “Sleepy.”

Nick dropped his hand away and lay and looked at the ceiling as Ilsa’s breathing settled back into gentle snores. This wasn’t like her. But jet lag, exhaustion and satiation soon dragged him down into sleep too.

...

It was dark when Nick woke, and he was utterly disorientated. Ilsa was asleep next to him. He had no idea what time it was, but he was wide awake suddenly and hungry. He got up and went down to the kitchen.

Ilsa’s phone was on the counter. He stared at it, puzzled. She usually had it by the bed. He poked it, but it was out of battery. Also unlike her. He was starting to become concerned. He hunted in the drawer, found a charger, plugged the phone in and put the kettle on.

There was almost no food in the house. Frowning, Nick hunted through cupboards and fridge. This was out of character for his organised wife, too. _What on earth has been going on,_ he wondered.

He looked at his watch, but it was still on California time, so he dug his phone out of his rucksack. He’d had a missed call from Strike the night before, but no message. It was almost 5am.

Nick had a sudden urge to go to the hospital. He wasn’t due in until tomorrow, but he hadn’t heard the final decision on the review yet, and Bob might know. He wondered if Bob would be in, and scrolled through his phone for the hospital roster. Yes, it was his early week. Worth a trip, then.

He grabbed a couple of slices of bread and put them in the toaster.

...

“Good grief, Nick, it’s eight o’clock in the morning and you’re supposed to be off. What are you doing here?”

Nick grinned. “Good to see you too, Bob.”

“Sorry! Come in! How are you, how was the trip?”

“Good, thanks.” Nick advanced into Bob’s office, which was as neat and organised as ever. Bob was just pulling on a lab coat.

“I want to hear all about it, but not now, eh? Ward rounds in a mo. Let’s do lunch this week.”

“Great,” Nick said. “I just popped by to see if there was any news.”

Bob glanced up from pinning his tie to his shirt and looked at him, shocked. “God, Nick, didn’t you get the email? You must have been on the plane. So sorry, and you’ve come all the way in here on your day off—”

“Yes, because I’m keen to know...”

Bob laughed. “Sorry. You’re all good, Nick,” he said. “Complaint has been rejected. You’ve got three docs more senior than you backing you up. They’ll have to drop the case.”

Nick sank into one of the chairs in front of Bob’s desk, weak-kneed suddenly.

“You didn’t really think otherwise?” Bob asked, looking at him curiously, picking up his stethoscope from his desk.

“Well...”

Bob shook his head. “You worry too much,” he said. “Go home, spend some time with Ilsa, she must have missed you. I’ve got a bit of paperwork for you, but no patients until Wednesday. Take tomorrow as well, eh? That jet lag coming back from the States is rough. You can start back proper then.”

Nick nodded and stood. “I’ll see you on Wednesday,” he said. “Thanks, Bob.”

Bob shook his hand. “Never doubted you,” he said. “You shouldn’t doubt yourself. See you Wednesday!” And he bustled out.

Nick made his way to his own office and let himself in. It almost looked like a different space, he hadn’t seen it in so long. Thank goodness he was staying. He sat at his desk, looking around at the familiar objects, his textbooks on the bookshelf, his coffee mug on the windowsill, his files on the shelves, pens scattered on the desk in front of his picture of himself and Ilsa on their wedding day. He ran a finger across the frame. Frozen in time, her in her simple white dress, him in his suit with his arms wrapped around her from behind, her head resting back against his shoulder, both smiling broadly at the camera. _We look so young,_ he thought suddenly. _It’s six years ago._ He resolved to get a more up-to-date picture of them for his desk.

He sat back with a sigh and looked at the ceiling. He was relieved. He really was. It was a huge weight off his mind to know his job was safe. But he wasn’t as happy as he’d expected to be.

Ilsa. _I’m more upset about us than I’ve realised,_ he thought.

It was time to go and fix things. Or at least try.

The journey home was tedious and took far longer than usual. The traffic was heavy and he missed California highways. He took a detour to Waitrose to get a few bits for lunch and tea and then headed home, really wishing now he’d used public transport. It was into the afternoon before he was driving down Octavia Street. He pulled up outside the house and sat looking at it for a few moments. Their bedroom curtains were still drawn. Ilsa must have forgotten to open them when she left for work.

_I’ll get supper prepared, and hopefully she won’t be too late home,_ he thought. _And then we can talk._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The picture on Nick’s desk is [here](https://lulacat3.tumblr.com/post/182894714830/look-you-guys-the-very-talented)


	17. You Keep It All In

When Nick let himself into the house, a lightness in his step that hadn’t been there for weeks, he was surprised to see Ilsa’s jacket on the peg. She was home early.

The house phone started ringing as he hung his jacket up next to hers, and he hurried through to the kitchen to answer it, dumping the Waitrose bags on the counter.

“Nick? It’s Claire, hi. Welcome back, good trip?”

“Hi, Claire. Yes, great trip, thanks. What can I do for you?” Nick busied himself putting the few bits of shopping he’d bought into the fridge and cupboard.

“Um, Ilsa didn’t come in to work today, and she didn’t call in sick. She’s never done that. And she’s not answering her mobile.”

Nick looked around. Ilsa’s phone was right where he’d left it, plugged in. He poked it. Three missed calls from Claire.

“Um, okay, thanks,” he said. “I think she might be under the weather actually, she was in bed yesterday when I got home. Thanks.”

“Er, Nick?” Claire said before he could hang up. “Is she... Is she okay?”

Nick frowned. “Why?”

“She’s been...odd. I mean, I know she would be with me, but generally.”

“Why would she be odd with you?”

“Ah, did she not tell you? I’m, um, pregnant.”

Nick closed his eyes, imagining Ilsa’s pain. “I see. I mean, congratulations,” he said warmly. _Why didn’t she tell me?_

“I wonder why she didn’t tell me,” he murmured.

There was an awkward silence.

“Claire?”

“Ah, gosh, Nick. Not my business, really.”

“Please tell me, Claire. I need all the help I can get communicating with her at the moment.” Nick closed his eyes again, wondering if he was betraying his wife by discussing her with her friend. _Probably. But needs must._

“Well. She was quite upset when it got to a year, you know? And she said... She said you just keep telling her to stop worrying. That’s not how us women work, you know.” She was trying to lighten the situation.

“That’s not how people work,” Nick agreed, thinking suddenly of how it had irritated— no, _hurt_ him when she hadn’t understood the gravity of his work situation. “Right. Thanks, Claire. Um, I think you can assume she’ll not be in tomorrow either. I’ll ring you if she’ll still be off after that.”

“Thanks, Nick. Give her my love, will you? Tell her... Tell her I miss her.” Claire’s voice wobbled.

“I will do,” he said gently. “Bye.”

Nick hung up the phone and stood, thinking, for a moment. Almost immediately, his mobile rang. Strike.

“Nick. Welcome home, mate.”

“You too, Oggy. Enjoying your freedom?”

“God, yes,” Nick could hear the relief in his old friend’s voice. “I hope I never spend another night in hospital again. How was the trip?”

“Yeah, good, thanks. Hey, are you allowed to drink again? I’ll tell you all about it over a pint.”

Strike laughed. “Officially, yes, but can you imagine what a lightweight I’ll be? And on crutches, and I’m still off balance sometimes. Could be disastrous.”

Nick grinned. “Better take a doctor with you, then. And I’ll personally escort you home in a cab.”

“It’s a deal. Look, Nick...” Strike sounded hesitant.

“What is it?”

“How’s Ilsa?”

“You’re the second person to ring me and ask me that.”

“I’m guessing the other one was Claire?”

“How did you know that?”

Strike sighed down the phone. “She was pretty cut up about it. They’re just about managing to share that office, but I don’t think it’s fun. She was looking pretty miserable. And then...” He trailed off again.

“Then what?”

“Agh.” Nick could imagine Strike dragging a hand through the hair that had become quite unruly again with his extended hospital stay. “Er. Well. Look, Nick, I... I had a word with her, the last time I saw her. About how much time she was, ah, spending with me. You know I’m grateful, super grateful, to both of you, to her for her time and to you for letting me borrow her. I wouldn’t have got through this without you, both of you. But she seemed a bit...invested. I don’t know, maybe that’s the wrong word—”

“Oggy, it’s okay. I get what you mean.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You’ve no need to be.”

“I should have seen it sooner. I was too much inside my own head.”

“Mate, it’s fine.”

There was a pause.

“Look, Nick, just tell her I’m sorry, yeah? And I’m worried about her. Or maybe don’t tell her that. I don’t know. I’ll leave it to you.”

“I’ll sort it,” Nick promised.

“Okay, thanks. And sorry.”

“Stop apologising.”

“Sorry. Agh.”

Nick laughed. “Bye, Oggy. Oh - Oggy?”

“Yeah?”

“When was this? When you talked to her?”

“Saturday morning, when I was packing up.”

“Okay, thanks. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Nick put his mobile down and stared at it. Then he looked at the house phone. He moved back to Ilsa’s mobile and keyed in the passcode to open it. Three missed calls from Claire. Six unopened texts, four from Claire and two from Strike. He didn’t read them, but clearly Ilsa hadn’t either.

His gaze raised to the ceiling. Ilsa must have been in bed since Saturday afternoon. And it was now Monday afternoon. He knew she was exhausted after months of chasing about, but still. _This is more than that,_ he thought. _She’s emotionally wrung out too. And she’s just lost two best friends._

He sank down onto a bar stool and gazed at the wall, thinking.

 

 


	18. Church Of Your Heart

Nick sat for over an hour in the slowly fading summer light in his kitchen, staring at the wall, lost in thought. He barely moved.

Eventually he got up, made mugs of tea and two slices of toast. He buttered the toast, put milk in the tea. He put his mobile on the counter next to Ilsa’s and unplugged the house phone. The world could go take a hike for the night. _I’ve picked up Americanisms,_ he thought to himself with the ghost of a smile. California seemed so far away already, like he’d dreamed it.

Nick climbed the stairs with the plate of toast and mugs of tea. Evening light tried to peep through curtains that had been firmly closed to block it out. He put the toast and one mug on Ilsa’s bedside table, twitched the curtains open just a fraction to let in a little light and went round to his side of the bed.

He changed into his pyjamas and climbed into bed next to his wife. He slid over to her and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her back to his chest, spooning her. “Ilsa,” he murmured into her hair, waking her gently. She grumbled and buried her face in the pillow.

“Ilsa?” Gently, insistently, he woke her, though she resisted him at every stage. “Ilsa, wake up. I need you.”

Finally she turned and looked at him, her eyes blank. “What?” she whispered dully.

He kissed her forehead. “I need to you sit up and eat that toast and drink that tea, and then I need you to listen to me,” he said. “Please,” he added before she could object.

She sighed and dragged herself into a sitting position. He vaguely wondered when she had last showered. Her hair was a bird’s nest on the back of her head, her nightshirt rumpled, her face blotchy. She looked beautiful.

He propped up the pillows and sat next to her, slid an arm round her while she ate her toast. When she put the plate down and picked up her tea, he gently rested his cheek on the top of her head.

“I miss you,” he said softly.

She half-smiled up at him. “You’re back now,” she replied.

Nick hesitated. “Yeah, but you’re not.”

She dropped her gaze, staring blankly into her tea.

Nick drew a slow breath, nervous suddenly. _Here goes._ “Claire rang me,” he said. “And then Oggy did.”

Ilsa closed her eyes. She just wanted to go back to sleep.

There was a long silence. Nick wondered if he needed to gently prod her a little more, but then she spoke.

“I’ve made such a fool of myself, Nick.” Hot tears squeezed out from under her closed eyelids.

Nick wrapped his arms around her. “You haven’t,” he said gently. “Oggy’s worried about you, he thinks he was too harsh.”

“It needed saying. I lost perspective a little.”

Nick sighed. It being true didn’t make watching her reach the conclusion any less painful.

“You are the most caring, empathetic person I’ve ever known,” he told her. “Feeling other people’s pain and wanting to help them is what makes you you, and so special. It’s one of the things I love best about you. Maybe...” he hesitated. “Maybe what you’ve forgotten to do is acknowledge your own pain.”

There was another pause. Ilsa finished her tea and put her mug down. She raised her eyes slowly to his and his heart twisted at the anguish he saw in them. “I’m not very good with my own pain,” she said shakily. “It hurts too much.”

“And I have to apologise here,” Nick said gently. She frowned a little, uncomprehending. “I feel like...maybe you feel I didn’t take your concerns seriously enough. I’m so sorry, Ils. I genuinely thought - think - that it’s just a case of being patient. But I see now that me endlessly saying that was just dismissing your worries.”

She nodded slowly. “I was so anxious for it to happen, so tired of waiting. Afraid something was wrong. And every time I tried to say any of that to you, you just told me not to worry. So I stopped saying it.”

Nick sighed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t truly understand how upset you were. Are. How much you’re hurting. And...”

He paused. “Well, if it helps, I really do want us to have a baby too, and I’m sad it’s not happening. But I didn't want to add to your worries by saying that. I see maybe that made it seem like I wanted it less than you, or cared less that it wasn’t happening or something.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “I just... I assumed that it would have happened by now. I’ve been thinking, I've kind of put life on hold. We never booked a holiday this year because I assumed I’d be pregnant or we’d have a baby. I didn’t put in for the last big case at work because I thought there’s no point, I’ll be on maternity leave before it finishes. My life has just slowly become about nothing but waiting to be pregnant. That probably isn’t healthy.”

“And then Claire...” Nick prompted gently. Tears filled Ilsa’s eyes again.

“I miss her so much,” she said.

“She misses you too,” Nick said. “She’s desperate to reconnect with you.”

Ilsa shook her head. “I don’t know if I can. It’s... it’s too much, Nick. I don’t know if it’s because she’s my best friend, the one I confided in, that it feels like she’s betrayed me. Let me finish.” She held up a hand as he went to speak. “I’m not saying this is logical, or right. I’m just saying it’s what I feel. Maybe it’s that, or maybe it’s because it was an accident, when we’ve tried so hard. Or maybe it’s because she never wanted children, and that’s just so unfair it takes my breath away.”

Nick nodded.

“It’s a mess of all of those things in my head. I just don’t think I can talk to her about it.”

“Have you told her any of it?”

Ilsa shook her head. “What good would it do? They’re all totally unfair things for me to think, and not her fault.”

“But if you feel those things, then they’re real. Denying them won’t make them magically go away. Claire wants to understand, and she’s your best friend. I think she can take it.”

Ilsa sighed. “Maybe,” she said doubtfully. “But either way, she’s still going to have a baby and I’m not. She’s going to get sucked into that world of baby gym and mums’ groups that I’m shut out of.”

Nick wrapped his arms around her again and she laid her head on his shoulder. “Probably, for a bit,” he said. “But she’ll be back. I imagine Claire will very quickly think that all that is complete bullshit and she’d rather be back in the pub with a vodka and Coke.”

Ilsa choked a laugh and a sob. “She will!”

“Just give her time, Ils. She’ll come back.”

Ilsa nodded.

They sat in silence for a while, lost in their own thoughts.

Presently Ilsa sighed. “I need to talk to Corm,” she said.

Nick kissed the top of her head. “He said to tell you he’s sorry.”

Ilsa shook her head. “He’s got nothing to be sorry for. He was surprisingly tactful.”

“He can be when he wants to be.”

“Charlotte thought I was in love with him. Can you believe it?”

Nick closed his eyes. “Maybe it looked like that to her.”

Ilsa snorted. “She’s ridiculously insecure. Corm and I have never felt like that about each other.”

Nick breathed out slowly, something deep within him relaxing. “I know.”

“I don’t know, Nick, I just needed...” Ilsa trailed off. There was another pause. “I wanted to be needed,” she whispered.

Nick drew back and shifted to face her on the bed, gently steering her shoulders round to face him so he could look into her eyes, unflinching at her pain, letting her see his.

“You are needed, Ils. _I_ need you.”

She waved a hand. “You know what I mean—”

He cut her off. “But I don’t think you know what I mean.”

She looked at him then, really looked at him, her eyes searching his. He saw the sudden flicker of comprehension, and it was as though something broke inside him. Tears filled his eyes.

“I need you, Ilsa,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve been so lonely. I didn’t know how to reach you over the baby stuff. I couldn’t connect. And then this work thing knocked me for six. I was really afraid I might lose my licence. I don’t even know who I’d be if I wasn’t a doctor.” Words and tears tumbled out of him in a muddle. “But mostly I don’t know who I’d be without you. We’ve always been so rock solid, you and me, and suddenly I felt like I was losing you. Even when you were here, you weren’t here. And when you were, we were arguing. I’m not making sense.” He wiped a shaking hand across his eyes.

Stunned, Ilsa stared at him, then instinctively she wrapped her arms around him, fierce and strong. Suddenly he was crying properly, clinging to her, his face buried in her neck. All at once she was here and present and listening, and he realised what had been missing for so long.

“God, Nick, I’m sorry,” she muttered against his neck as his shoulders heaved. “I had no idea, I’m so sorry. You’ve always been my rock, my anchor, just always here and so confident of who you are and where you’re going, since the day I met you.”

She pressed a kiss to the side of his head above his ear, her heart breaking at the sound of his muffled sobs. His hands clung to the back of her nightshirt. She wrapped her arms tighter around him, one hand sliding up to stroke his hair.

“Remember your birthday party when we met?” she went on, her voice murmuring in his ear. “You felt so much older than me, even though it’s only a few months. You were so confident, so at ease with yourself. You already knew you were going to med school. I felt so naive, drifting, in comparison.”

Nick drew a deep, shuddering breath against her neck as she rubbed soothing circles on his back.

“I guess...” she trailed off, thinking. “I guess I’ve taken that for granted. That you’re just here, and strong, and fine. I was so wrapped up in my own pain and focusing on helping Corm, I couldn’t even see yours.”

She drew back, taking his tear-streaked face in her hands. “I’m sorry,” she said sincerely, tears in her eyes too now. “I’ve let you down. But I’m here now.” She pressed her cheek to his, breathing him, holding him to her.

Nick nodded, struggling to get hold of his emotions. “Don’t ever think that I don’t need you,” he whispered raggedly, “just because I’m not very good at showing it. But it’s not your fault, I should have said. I couldn’t find the words.”

He drew back a little and gave her a rueful, teary smile. “And it would have sounded so petulant, trying to drag your attention away from Oggy, who really needed you for something that doesn’t compare. He’s lost an actual limb as well as his career.”

Ilsa poked him gently on the chest. “Didn’t you just say five minutes ago that if you’re feeling something then it’s valid and you shouldn’t bury it?” she said gently. “Take your own advice, doctor.” He smiled shakily at her.

“Besides,” she went on, thoughtful. “I should have been able to do both. I was so wrapped up in him. Probably, if I’m honest, to avoid thinking about our problems. It was easier just to focus on his.”

“I know,” Nick said softly. “And I wasn’t helping matters by burying my pain and letting it turn into anger, and not really understanding yours. I’ve let you down too, and I’m sorry too.”

Ilsa grabbed a handful of tissues from her bedside table and wiped his cheeks tenderly, following up with gentle kisses. Then she kissed him, softly, on the mouth. He kissed her back, and then they slid down into bed together, arms wrapped around one another. Nick held her tightly and gave a deep, shuddering sigh. She nuzzled in to him, her face against his neck. They lay for long minutes in one another’s arms.

“So what now?” Ilsa asked presently.

“Well, I go back to work as normal,” Nick said. “I popped in to see Bob this morning. The review has found I wasn’t negligent, and Bob’s pretty sure they’ll drop the case now. They’re unlikely to win.“

Ilsa hugged him tighter. “That is good news,” she said. “I’m glad they recognise you didn’t make a mistake. I hope you believe it too.”

Nick nodded. “I think I do. I never did watch that footage, so maybe I just won’t now. What about you?”

Ilsa sighed a little. “Well, ironically, Claire did sign up for that huge case that’s going to take well into next summer, and she’ll be on maternity leave soon. So I guess I’ll see if I can pick that up from her. I know how she thinks, I can easily work from her notes and the lines she’s followed so far. And maybe if we have to spend a chunk of time talking about work stuff, you know...bridge the gap.”

She took a shaky breath. “And let’s plan something nice. Maybe we could go away for Christmas this year. Corm’s got Charlotte now, and we went to Cornwall last year.”

Nick nodded. “I’d like that.” He squeezed her close. He paused again, hesitant.

“And I’ve been thinking,” he said, slowly. “About the baby thing. Let’s... How about we give it a couple of months of not counting and eating kale, of just being us? I’ve missed you so much, I’d love to just spend some time with my wife. Let’s go on dates and wander round museums and spend Saturday mornings in that bookshop on the High Street like we used to.” He could feel her nodding against his chest, felt the squeeze of her arm tightening around him, and tears sprang to his eyes again at the feel of her truly listening to him and being on the same page. He’d missed it more than he’d realised.

“And then if it hasn’t happened by then,” he went on, wiping his eyes again, “it will have been, what, fifteen, sixteen months? If you still want to, we’ll go the GP and start the ball rolling on getting checked out. I can pop down to the fertility clinic at work and get tested any time, actually, they are pretty discreet, even though I know I grumbled.”

Ilsa buried her face in his chest and squeezed him tightly. “Okay,” she whispered.

“But... in the meantime, can you have a think, a real think, about what that would mean? What if it’s only one of us that has an issue? What if it’s me, would that change how you feel about us? What if it’s not fixable? We could just end up with a different problem. At least consider that doing nothing can be a positive choice.”

Ilsa looked up at him. “Is that what you want?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. I’ve been burying my head in the sand and hoping nature will solve things for us before we have to decide. But if we do have to decide, then all options on the table, yeah? It’s not perfect, but it is a plan.”

Ilsa nodded slowly, thinking. Nick wrapped her up tighter in his arms and hugged her close. Then he shifted in the bed to lie next to her, capturing her hands in his, pressing his forehead to hers. “I love you so much,” he whispered.

She smiled gently. “I love you too.”

“Let’s not ever get so far apart again. It was horrible.”

“Agreed.”

She snuggled in to him, pressing her face to his chest, murmuring words of love into the front of his pyjama top. Nick buried his nose in her hair and pulled her closer, breathing in the scent of her as they drifted into sleep.

 


	19. Dream Fields

When Nick woke in the morning, Ilsa was gone from their bed. He could hear the shower running. He stretched and lay for long minutes, thinking. He hoped he had managed to say all the right things and that she’d understood. He smiled gently at the thought of her, his beautiful, complex, caring, fiercely empathetic wife. She was so precious, and he vowed to himself never to forget that, or let her forget it.

The shower switched off and he rolled out of bed to go and take her place.

Ilsa emerged from the bathroom, a towel piled on her head, toothbrush in her mouth. “I’ll make tea,” she said indistinctly, and Nick smiled and nodded. He kissed her cheek and went to shower himself.

Ilsa scrubbed her hair and set to with a wide-toothed comb to work out the worst of the tangles. She left it to dry naturally. She put her toothbrush back in the bathroom and took last night’s mugs and plate downstairs. Sunshine streamed through the French doors, bathing the kitchen in a warm glow. She felt happier, more at peace, than she had in months and months.

She filled the kettle and flicked it on, poked at her phone and made a face at all the missed messages. They could wait until later. While the kettle chuntered away, she stood and looked out at the garden. It was looking overgrown and neglected. _We must sort that out,_ she thought. Suddenly she couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do than spend an afternoon pottering in the garden with her husband.

She brewed two mugs of tea and took them back upstairs. Nick was out of the shower now and wandering around the bedroom collecting clothes for the day, trying to decide on a shirt, towel slung across his hips. Ilsa put the tea on the dresser opposite the bed and stood and watched him. When had she last really looked at him? Had his hair receded a little more? It was lighter, bleached by the California sun, and were there a few flecks of silver in the blond at his temples? The tan suited him, and he’d clearly kept fit while he was over there, lithe as ever.

Nick stopped what he was doing and looked at her, gorgeous in her dressing gown with damp, mussed hair. “What?” he said, grinning.

She put her head on one side. “Did you get sexier while you were away?”

His grin broadened. “I don’t know. Want to find out? In a, er, slightly more reciprocal way than yesterday, sorry.”

Ilsa laughed softly. “I think I might.” She crossed the room to him and slid her hands across the damp hair on his chest, humming her appreciation at the feel of him. “Don’t be sorry about that. Nice to know I can still drive you wild, even if I wasn’t completely awake.”

Nick groaned. “God, you’re making it sound even worse.”

She giggled. “I was in a weird place in my head, I think I just switched off from the world. But I’m back now. Let’s start again.” She slid her arms around his back. “It’s been too long,” she whispered.

“It really has,” he said, and kissed her.

Ilsa kissed him back for a long minute and then drew away.

“By the way,” she said softly. “In case you were wondering, I have no idea if this is a baby-making occasion. I stopped counting while you weren’t here and I’ve lost track.”

Nick smiled gently. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “That was just me being insecure. Sorry.”

She gave him a cheeky grin. “This is a ‘whoa, look at my sexy husband all tanned and bleached blond from the California sun’ occasion,” she murmured, her eyes raking across his chest, her fingers following, exploring.

Nick shivered under her touches. “I like the sound of that occasion,” he said.

Ilsa hummed agreement and pressed closer, kissing his chest and running kisses across him to his shoulder. She trailed fingertips and kisses around his arm and across his back and he stood and enjoyed her ministrations, his head dropping back a little. She ran her hands softly down his back and across his backside over the towel, pausing to squeeze one buttock and drawing a chuckle from him, before completing her circuit back round to the front of him.

Nick reached out and gently tugged the belt of her dressing gown undone and slid his hands inside. Her skin was soft from her shower, and he growled a little at the feel of her as he caressed her hips and circled her waist with his hands. Ilsa carried on gently running her hands over his chest and stomach, stroking and then curling her fingers slightly to rake her nails gently across him, making him shudder.

She tilted her head up, her hand creeping round the back of his neck to draw him down for another kiss, her tongue seeking his. They kissed for long minutes, arms around one another, taking their time to explore in a way they hadn’t done for many months.

“Come and get into bed with me,” Ilsa whispered, smiling softly. She undid his towel and dropped it to the floor, shed her dressing gown and pulled him gently towards the bed. They climbed in and wrapped around one another, hands stroking.

“It feels like a lifetime since we’ve done this,” Nick murmured into her skin as he trailed kisses across her neck and shoulder.

Ilsa’s head dropped back to give him more access. “It does, since we last did it just for love and the fun of it,” she replied softly, and shuddered as he bit gently at her collarbone.

Nick drew back a little and kissed her lips again, tender and sweet. “I love you,” he whispered.

Ilsa smiled and tangled her fingers into his hair. “I love you too.” She pulled him into another kiss, wriggling and pulling at him to encourage him closer, over her, onto her.

...

“I guess I need another shower now,” Nick said later, and Ilsa chuckled. He rolled to face her, smiling at her, his eyes soft and vulnerable. He kissed her gently, sweetly, and then, because she was looking for it, she saw the little change, the subtle shift as he put on his mental armour for the day and went to have another shower. _Has he always done that and I never noticed?_ she wondered. _Or is he just letting me see now?_

She stretched in the bed, languorous and sated, happy. Nick had kissed every inch of her, enjoyed her touches as she did the same for him. He had made love to her slowly and tenderly, whispering love in her ear, allowing her pleasure to build slowly, taking her with him until they dissolved together, consumed by one another, the last echoes of the tensions of recent months melting in bliss.

Ilsa lay for a while, listening to the shower, listening to her own head. She was at peace. The chattering thoughts that had raced around her mind for months were still. Her relaxed mind allowed her body to relax. She felt heavy, boneless, complete. Nick needed her. Really needed her, in a way she’d not understood before. It was a revelation, and her heart clung to it and fed off it. The beacon that shone in her heart for him, that had been lit when she was seventeen and had never quite gone out even when they weren’t together, had flickered and wobbled a little in recent months. Now it burned strong and true, steady, anchoring her to him and to herself, unbreakable.

 


	20. Ends Of The Earth

Mid morning Nick and Ilsa strolled, hand in hand, to a cafe near Charlotte’s flat. Strike had answered Ilsa’s text suggesting coffee with gratifying speed, and she wondered if he’d been waiting by his phone.

Strike and Charlotte were sat at one of several metal tables on the pavement outside the cafe, Strike’s crutches tucked along the pavement under the window. The summer sun shone warmly on them, and Strike looked better than he had in months, since before the accident.

“Excuse me not getting up,” he said drily.

Nick grinned and shook his hand. “You look well,” he said. “Not being in hospital suits you.”

“God, yes,” Strike agreed. He turned his eyes to Ilsa, who was hanging back a little.

“I’ll get more coffees and some pastries,” Charlotte said with rare tact. She gave Nick a kiss on the cheek and smiled warmly at Ilsa, who couldn’t quite bring herself to smile back.

“I’ll give you a hand.” Nick followed her inside, leaving Strike and Ilsa alone.

Ilsa hesitated, a little awkward, not quite looking at him. Strike held out an arm. “C’mere,” he said gruffly.

Ilsa leaned over and hugged him, clinging to him. He smelled of smoke and spice, just like always, warm and solid and comforting. They held each other for a long minute. “I’m sorry,” she muttered into his shoulder.

He cleared his throat roughly as she drew back, wiping her eyes. “You have nothing to apologise for, Ilsa,” he said. “I’m the one who’s sorry. You’ve done so much for me these last few months. You’ve held me together. I can never thank you enough.”

Ilsa drew up a chair and dropped into it. “You don’t have to thank me,” she said. “It’s what friends are for. And I wanted to thank you, too, for...being tactful.” Strike nodded but said nothing.

Ilsa hesitated again, looked away. “You know Charlotte thought—”

“I know what Charlotte thought. I’ve set her straight.”

“Good. And...” Ilsa closed her eyes. “And you didn’t—?”

“No! God, no. Not for a minute.”

“Good. Good. Because. You know. I love you, but—”

“I know. You don’t have to explain. Me too.”

Ilsa nodded. “Good.”

“And Nick? How are things?”

Ilsa blushed and nodded. “Good. All good. _Really_ good, actually,” she added softly.

“Good.”

“Good.”

Ilsa giggled. “Last of the great conversationalists,” she said. Strike laughed his big laugh, and just like that the tension evaporated and twenty-six years of friendship reasserted itself. They were still chuckling when Charlotte and Nick returned with a tray of coffees and a large pile of pastries.

“Good God, Nick, there are only four of us,” Strike exclaimed.

Nick winked. “I’m hungry,” he said, casting a sly glance at Ilsa, who blushed again.

Charlotte laughed. “I can assure you Bluey is equally hungry,” she said. “Let’s just say he’s enjoying being out of hospital.”

Strike grinned roguishly. “It’s all the physio,” he said, smiling fondly at her, and she flicked a crumb at him.

Nick pulled up two more chairs and he and Ilsa sat. Strike and Charlotte wanted to hear all about his trip, and he was soon telling them stories of Buck Owens, of long drives, of California highways, of whale-watching off Monterey.

As he talked, his arm resting along the arm of his chair, Ilsa slid her hand gently into his, their fingers tangling idly together just as they had always done, and his heart swelled with happiness. She listened to his stories eagerly too, even though she had heard them all on the phone, and he felt captivated by her attention in a way he hadn’t done for years. He caught her eye when Charlotte turned to Strike to remind him of a trip they’d taken, years ago, and found her gazing at him fondly. Suddenly he couldn’t wait to whisk her home to bed again despite this morning’s activities.

...

“We’d better go,” Ilsa said presently, glancing at her watch. “We need to get to the supermarket. There’s barely anything to eat in the house.”

The four said their goodbyes. Strike had pulled himself up, balanced on the crutches Charlotte passed to him. He looked searchingly at Nick as they shook hands.

“We good?”

Nick nodded. “We were never not, mate.”

Strike nodded. “Good.”

“Good.”

Strike chuckled. Nick grinned. “What?”

“Second time today I’ve had this exact conversation,” he said, nodding fondly at Ilsa.

Nick laughed and slid an arm around his wife, drawing her to him. “We’re all good.”

Charlotte and Strike made their way slowly across the street towards the door to their flat, and Nick and Ilsa strolled away up the pavement, hand in hand. Ilsa reached across and tucked her other hand around her husband’s upper arm, leaning her head against his shoulder, and sighed happily.

 


End file.
